Gerald Marsh’s office was downtown inside an older building with polished brass fixtures and the unmistakable atmosphere of a law office. He greeted me warmly before placing a folder on his desk.
“Before we begin,” he said, “I want to tell you that your father spoke about you frequently. He was proud of you in the specific way of a person who doesn’t always find the words for pride but never stops feeling it.”
I stared at the folder.
“Thank you,” I said quietly.
He opened it.
Dad’s estate was modest. The house was valued at about $340,000. There was a savings account, a small investment portfolio, his truck, personal belongings, and the contracting tools he’d retired two years earlier.
The will divided the house equally among the three of us. His financial accounts, however, were left entirely to me, with a note explaining it was in recognition of the years I’d spent caring for him through his illness. The remaining belongings would be divided by mutual agreement, with any disagreements handled through a legal process Gerald explained in more detail than I could absorb that day.
