My mother had died when I was seventeen. She had been gentle, tired, beautiful in the way candlelight is beautiful—soft and flickering and always at risk of going out. She had never seemed connected to Aunt Margaret’s world of towers, lawyers, trusts, and old money.
“What is this?” I whispered.
Mr. Meyers’ answer came carefully. “It appears to be a custodial trust agreement created for you shortly after your birth.”
I looked up. “For me?”
“Yes.”
“But Aunt Margaret just left me everything.”
His eyes met mine.
“No, Mrs. Carter. Based on this, much of what you received today may have belonged to you all along.”
The room tilted.
I reached for the table to steady myself.
All along.
Years of stretching grocery money. Years of skipping doctor appointments because the copay felt too high. Years of telling Lily she could join dance next semester, telling Noah the museum trip would have to wait, telling myself Daniel was doing his best.
