The day my mother’s will was read, I sat in a large leather chair
while the attorney presented details of her life through formal legal
language.
Her house went to my stepfather.
Her car went to him as well.
Her savings were divided between him and my stepsister Lila.
For me, the document listed a single item: an old, faded shawl with
visible wear along its edges. I held the fabric in my hands, running my
fingers across its surface as I tried to understand the choice.
Lila offered commentary on the item in a voice that carried across
the room. Several attendees shifted in their seats without speaking.
I remained quiet, processing the moment without clear explanation.
