I knew this because I signed in every time I visited.
So did everyone else.
I looked toward the envelope from Nana.
It was still sitting on my kitchen counter.
For the first time, I understood what she might have meant when she’d asked whether I would allow my father to decide what to do with something important.
I opened the envelope.
Inside were several handwritten pages.
The first began:
My darling girl,
I sat down before I could read another word.
Nana wrote about the life she’d watched me build.
She remembered my college graduation.
My commission.
The promotions I’d stopped discussing at family dinners.
She wrote about how proud she’d been when I told her I wanted to use the law to help people who didn’t know how to defend themselves.
Then the letter turned toward her own decisions.
She said she’d spent considerable time thinking about what she wanted to happen to her estate.
