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…

Rebecca continued without pause, reading off allocations like she was listing inventory. My name didn’t come up. At the end one of the associates asked, and Mrs Sloan’s share? Rebecca barely looked up.

There are no remaining distributions assigned to her under the current filing. Just like that. No eye contact, no explanation, just the legal version of being erased.

I felt a strange heat rise up my spine, but my hands stayed still. I didn’t say a word. The room went quiet for a second too long, but no one addressed it.

The meeting continued. When it was over, I waited for everyone else to leave. Rebecca packed her briefcase slowly, almost as if she were expecting me to say something.

But I didn’t. I stood adjusted my scarf and walked out without looking back. Downstairs, the cold air slapped my cheeks.

I didn’t cry. I didn’t even feel sad yet. Just hollow.

Like I’d watched a version of my life fold itself into a document and get filed away under someone else’s name. Rebecca didn’t just claim the power in that room. She claimed the narrative.

The house. The history. She had spoken over my silence and no one had questioned it.

Not once. As I walked toward the parking garage, one sentence echoed in my mind. There are no remaining distributions assigned to her.

I wasn’t a widow anymore. I wasn’t even a line item. I was nothing.

I went home and sat in the dark for a long time that afternoon. I didn’t want to turn on the lights. The silence inside the house felt louder than any conversation I could bear.

I still hadn’t unpacked the last of Patrick’s things from the hospital. His cane rested by the back door where he had left it the last time we returned from chemo. I hadn’t moved it.

I couldn’t. Later that evening, I opened the desk drawer in Patrick’s study. It wasn’t anything deliberate.

My hands just acted before my mind caught up. The drawer squeaked the way it always did. He used to say it needed oil.

I always said I liked it the way it was. That sound meant he was home. Inside were old envelopes receipts from book orders, his favourite mechanical pencil, and a few faded sticky notes with grocery reminders.

At the very back, beneath a cloth-bound ledger, I found a small manila folder I didn’t recognise. No label, no date. I opened it and found three sheets of paper.

The top one was a handwritten draft. His handwriting, unmistakable though a bit shaky, filled the page. No greeting, no signature, just a short note written in that quiet voice of his.

Rebecca wants me to update the will, says it needs to reflect current holdings. I asked her why now and she said it’s for clarity. I think she’s being careful too careful.

She’s started drawing up papers on my behalf. I haven’t signed anything yet. I haven’t told Marietta.

I know she’d ask the questions I’m afraid of. I stared at the paper. My eyes scanned it over and over looking for some other meaning, but the message was plain.

He had doubts. He hadn’t told me. He had sensed something, but he stayed quiet.

The second page was a photocopy of the most recent will I had never seen. Rebecca had shown the signed version in the meeting, but this was clearly different. There were annotations in the margins, edits, corrections, several sections circled in red pen.

My name had been there. The sentence read, In the event of my passing, I leave my personal assets, including home shares and designated accounts to my wife, Marietta Sloan. It had been crossed out.

Handwritten in the margin was a note. Discuss with Rebecca. The third page was a typed schedule of appointments.

Legal consultations. Two of the dates were from months ago back when Patrick was in and out of treatment. I hadn’t known he was meeting with anyone…