My daughter-in-law said I’d get nothing from my husband’s 77 million. She sat all smiles at the will reading. But minutes later, the lawyer put the papers down… and laughed…

No letter. Patrick had drawers of journals and letters. We used to write notes to each other even when we were in the same house.

But in the end, all I got was a tie clip, not even one he wore often. Rebecca smiled politely and walked off like that was the end of it. Like she had closed the book for both of us.

That night I sat in the kitchen with a lukewarm cup of tea. And for the first time since Patrick passed, I felt like I didn’t belong in the home we built together. The walls still smelled like his aftershave.

His books were still in the hallway. But it was as if my name had been quietly erased from every room. I told myself maybe I was overthinking.

Maybe I was just tired. But something inside me had shifted. There was a coldness in the air I couldn’t name.

And it wasn’t just from grief. It felt like I had been quietly written out of the story. Like everyone had received a new script but me.

Have you ever looked around your own home and felt like a stranger in it? That’s what I felt that night. And it was only the beginning. The invitation came as an email, cold, formal, sent from Rebecca’s assistant, not even from her.

Subject line, estate administration, meeting scheduled. I stared at it for a while, unsure whether to feel insulted or just numb. The meeting was scheduled for Wednesday 9am at her firm’s downtown office.

No message, no hope you’re holding up, just a time and place like a dental appointment. That morning I arrived five minutes late. Traffic was bad and I had stopped twice, unsure if I should even go.

The elevator opened to a sleek reception area that smelled like eucalyptus and printer ink. A young assistant gave me a look that said she wasn’t expecting someone like me. I smoothed down my coat and followed her into the conference room.

The door closed behind me with a soft click. There were seven people around the long table, all in dark suits. Rebecca sat at the head, her hair pulled back, eyes fixed on a stack of folders in front of her.

She didn’t stand, didn’t say hello, she just nodded slightly as if to say, you can sit. Over there. I took the seat at the far end, it was the only empty chair away from the folders, away from the coffee.

No one slid me a packet, no one offered a word. Rebecca cleared her throat. As executor of the estate she began, I’ll be walking us through the distribution of assets as laid out in the finalised will.

Her voice was sharp professional, like she was hosting a board meeting. I sat quietly, my hands folded in my lap. I was the only one not holding a pen.

She went over stocks trust accounts, two commercial properties in Salem, and the partial ownership of a winery Patrick had invested in with friends. Then she announced that Patrick had transferred primary control of the family trust to her six months prior. I blinked.

That wasn’t possible. I had been managing that trust with Patrick for nearly 20 years. He never mentioned anything about transferring it to her…