UNCLE HAROLD’S ESTATE

Uncle Harold died on a March morning, from a sudden heart attack at home, at seventy-two.

I was the one who found him, still holding the cup of coffee he brewed himself every morning.

The funeral was private — just his closest people: longtime colleagues, a few old friends, and me.

I stood there, forcing myself to hold still, thinking about the only man who had ever chosen me for no reason beyond simply wanting to.

Three weeks later, the family’s law office called to schedule the official will reading.

I never expected that, walking into that conference room, the first people I’d see would be my parents, sitting in the front row, dressed immaculately, as if they’d always been part of my life.