“Your mother is gone. Tears won’t bring her back—so wipe your face, make dinner, and don’t look like a grieving child when my guests arrive.” That was what my husband said.

It was the first time a stranger had shown me such difference in this house. Normally, Marks guests treated me like an invisible being or a free servant. The secretary placed the briefcase on the coffee table, which was dirty with the remnants of the party. The sound of the briefcase’s latch opening, a click, resonated sharply in the suffocating silence. Mark, who was collapsed on the floor, slightly raised his head. His eyes were fixed on the briefcase with a mixture of fear and greedy curiosity. Perhaps in some corner of his rotten heart, he still hoped for a small share. Mr. Harrison took out a large brown envelope sealed with red wax bearing the official logo of a notary.