“Don’t answer,” Colleen whispered again, her hands shaking as she pulled a pair of heavy kitchen scissors from the drawer.
Without waiting another second, I slid the blade under the yellowed tape sealing the box. The sound was like a sharp intake of breath. Inside lay a neat stack of old notebooks, a folded legal document, and a thick manila envelope bearing my father’s handwriting—firm, precise, and completely untouched by the tremors that had plagued him since his stroke.
My name was written across the front: For Lucy.
“He gave this to me three weeks before he fell ill,” Colleen said softly, her eyes glistening. “He told me, ‘Colleen, if the day ever comes when my wife makes Lucy feel like she doesn’t belong in her own family, give her this. Open your eyes, read the words, and know that I saw everything.’”
My fingers trembled as I lifted the flap of the envelope. Inside was a personal letter and a certified copy of a newly amended last will and testament, dated just days before his stroke.
