“Dad’s inheritance is for my wedding,” my sister screamed from behind. I felt hands on my back, then falling. Fifteen concrete steps. My head hit every third one. the spine specialist marked “ᴀssᴀᴜʟᴛ-related vertebrae fracture.” The emergency scan went to administration. “Hospital CEO admitted with ᴛʀᴀᴜᴍᴀᴛɪᴄ ɪɴᴊᴜʀɪᴇs.”

The first thing I noticed in Mr. Jameson’s office was the silence. Not the calm kind, either, the kind that presses on your eardrums after someone says the name of a person who will never answer again.

Dad had been gone for three weeks, yet the paperwork stacked across the polished desk made it feel as if he were still somewhere nearby waiting for a phone call that would never come. Behind the attorney sat framed diplomas and certificates, and the brass lamp on the desk cast a quiet golden glow that made the room feel smaller than it really was.

Across from me sat my older sister Olivia Hartley, looking as flawless and composed as if she had stepped out of a luxury wedding magazine spread. Her hair was perfectly styled and her manicured fingers kept turning the enormous engagement ring on her hand, which caught the lamplight each time she moved it.

Attorney Charles Jameson adjusted his glasses slowly before speaking, the way experienced lawyers do when they know the next sentence will upset someone. “As executor of your father’s estate,” he said carefully, “my responsibility is to make sure the distribution follows the language in the will exactly as it was written.”