The gates swung open at the press of a remote Mr. Whitman had given me. My car moved slowly up the gravel drive, tires crunching, until I stopped before the towering front doors.
Inside, the faint scent of polished wood and lavender lingered, as if Helen herself had just tidied the place. A sweeping staircase curved upward, its railing gleaming. My footsteps echoed as I drifted from room to room. Everything was flawless, meticulously arranged, yet burdened with an unseen weight.
I had never stepped foot here before. And yet—now it belonged to me.
Without quite knowing why, I found myself drawn to her study. That room had once been off-limits, a space no one dared enter. The door creaked as I pushed it open. Sunlight streamed across the desk, illuminating something small and white.
A sealed envelope.
My name was written on it in Helen’s unmistakable, elegant handwriting.
My fingers trembled as I picked it up. My throat tightened as I broke the seal and unfolded the letter inside.
Her words met my eyes:
“Dear Anna, If you are reading this, then my time has passed…”
I read slowly, each sentence making my heart pound harder. She wrote of her children’s distance, their fixation on money over affection. She acknowledged her shortcomings, the coldness I had carried for years. She expressed regret.
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