“She can’t do this.”
The lawyer folded his hands.
“She already has.”
Laura’s face turned red.
“We are her children.”
“Yes,” he said. “She mentioned that several times.”
Fiona stared at the photograph attached to the back of the letter.
The Christmas table at 12:15 a.m.
Seventeen untouched plates.
Seventeen empty chairs.
The stockings near the mantel.
My name cards lined up like evidence.
Fiona covered her mouth.
“Mom took a picture?”
The lawyer nodded.
“She documented everything.”
There was a long silence.
I was not there, but he told me later that silence was the first honest thing in the room.
Michael turned on Fiona.
“Why are you crying?”
She looked at him like she was seeing him clearly for the first time.
“Because we did this.”
Laura snapped, “Don’t start.”
But Fiona did start.
She stood up with the letter in her hand and said, “We left her alone on Christmas. All of us.”
Michael muttered that everybody was busy.
Fiona pointed at the photograph.
“Busy for a phone call? Busy for one message? Busy for ten years?”
That was when the lawyer slid the final envelope across the table.
It had Richard’s old handwriting copied on the front from an anniversary card.
TO BE OPENED ONLY AFTER THEY UNDERSTAND WHY.
Laura reached for it.
The lawyer stopped her with one hand over the seal.
“Before you open that,” he said, “you should know that your mother left instructions for each of you. Not money. Instructions.”
Michael’s confidence drained from his face.
Fiona whispered, “What kind of instructions?”
The lawyer broke the seal.
Inside were three smaller envelopes.
Laura.
Michael.
Fiona.
Laura’s envelope contained copies of every unanswered message I had sent over the years and a note at the top.
You always said you were busy, so I have made this simple.
Michael’s contained a photograph of the chocolate cake on his porch, still in my hands, taken by his doorbell camera and printed from the copy Anna had once texted me by mistake.
At the top, I had written one sentence.
