Three days later, I went looking for her will. That was when I found the box.
It was buried in the back of our bedroom closet, beneath winter coats, a stack of old photo albums, and the heavy silence that had been growing since the day Claire passed.
I pulled it out, brushing away a thin layer of dust.
The box wasn’t labeled, but the tape along the edges looked newer than I expected. Claire must have sealed it herself, not long ago.
I expected to find an old anniversary card or a scribbled grocery list in her handwriting.
Something small.
Something familiar.
Instead, the first thing I saw when I opened the lid was a manila envelope. I opened it without thinking.
And my breath caught.
It was right there: Claire’s name, my name, and a judge’s intimidating signature.
And it was dated 21 years ago.
I sat frozen, staring at the paper. I thought maybe it was a mistake, like some kind of document that had been drafted but never filed. But the signatures were real.
Mine was tight and uneven.
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