I read the amount three times.
Then I looked at him.
“That can’t be right.”
“It is.”
“Four point seven million?”
“Approximately. The final accounting may change the precise amount.”
I stared at the document.
My first thought wasn’t about what I could buy.
It wasn’t about retiring.
It wasn’t even about my parents.
It was about Nana sitting in her kitchen, patiently clipping coupons even when she no longer needed to.
“Why?” I whispered.
Mr. Bennett regarded me gently.
“Your grandmother made her wishes quite clear.”
He slid a sealed envelope across the desk.
My name was written on the front in Nana’s unmistakable handwriting.
“She asked me to give you this.”
I picked it up.
For a moment, I couldn’t breathe.
It was such an ordinary thing.
An envelope.
A familiar handwriting.
A final message from someone who would never speak to me again.
