Whitmore handed me a sealed envelope with my name on it in Dad’s handwriting—slightly shaky, like his hands had trembled when he wrote it.
“Three months ago,” Whitmore said. “Right after the diagnosis.”
I didn’t open it there.
I ran my thumb across my name and felt something shift inside me.
Whitmore arranged a formal will reading for the following Friday and invited everyone from the family meeting.
Marcus called the night before.
“Your twenty-four hours are up,” he said, smugness obvious in his voice. “Bring a pen tomorrow. Let’s finish this.”
“I’ll be there,” I said.
Then Mom called.
This time her voice was softer.
“Briana, I know things have been difficult. But Marcus is in real trouble. He owes dangerous people. Over three hundred thousand. Maybe three fifty. I’ve already given him everything I had. The house was supposed to be the last option.”
“Selling Dad’s house won’t save him,” I said. “It’ll only postpone the problem.”
“You don’t understand.”
“I understand exactly.”
After she hung up, I opened Dad’s letter.
His handwriting shook across the page.