Ethan had declined.
“He told me marrying me for shelter wouldn’t be right.”
That response relieved me more than I wanted to admit.
Three months later, Mom died quietly in her sleep.
While organizing the funeral, I found a handwritten message among her belongings.
Ethan must be present when my will is read. This is not optional. Please find him.
So I did.
He arrived at the lawyer’s office wearing a borrowed coat, his old backpack hanging from one shoulder.
My brother, Daniel, frowned immediately.
“Why did you bring him?”
“Because Mom wanted him here.”
Daniel looked at Ethan as though poverty might stain the furniture.
“She barely knew him.”
“She saw him every Thursday for almost a year.”
“That is barely knowing someone.”
Ethan said quietly:
“I can leave.”
“No,” I said.
Daniel looked at me.
I held his gaze.
“You’re staying.”
The lawyer, Mr. Feldman, began reading.
Mom’s estate was not enormous.
