“Why me?”
There was a pause.
“She wrote you a letter because she wanted to answer that herself.”
I looked down at the pages scattered across my kitchen table.
The same kitchen table where, less than twenty-four hours earlier, I’d sat with a calculator trying to turn $340 into $18,000.
“Is this really legal?” I asked.
“Yes.
The transfer instructions were executed before her death.
We will walk you through the documentation.”
My next thought embarrassed me.
“Can anyone take it back?”
The attorney didn’t sound offended.
“Mrs.
Higgins anticipated that question.
She wanted you protected from uncertainty.
The gift was completed according to her instructions.”
I pressed my palm over my belly as the baby shifted.
For months, every official voice on the telephone had brought bad news.
Past due.
Reduced hours.
Late fee.
Final notice.
Foreclosure.
I had trained myself to expect every conversation to end with something being taken away.
Now a stranger was explaining that an eighty-two-year-old widow had spent one of the final afternoons of her life making sure something could not be taken from me.
When I ended the call, the sheriff was still outside.
I carried Margaret’s letter onto the porch.
“Did you know what was in it?” I asked.
“No,” he said.
“Only that she wanted you to receive it.”
“How did you know about the mailbox?”
He explained that Margaret’s attorney had contacted the authorities after learning of her death and mentioned a personal envelope Margaret said she intended to leave for me.
When the sheriff came to notify me, he saw it exactly where she said it would be.
I looked toward Margaret’s house.
Her porch seemed impossibly still.
“She did all that after I left?”
“Sounds like she was determined.”
I laughed through tears.
“She was.”
The sheriff gave me a small nod, put his hat back on, and left.
For several minutes, I remained on the porch holding the letter.
Then my phone rang.
Jason.
His name on the screen was so unexpected that I nearly dropped it.
He hadn’t called in weeks.
For a second, some foolish part of me wondered whether he had somehow sensed that everything had changed.
I answered.
“Hello?”
“Sarah.”
His voice sounded cautious, as though he expected anger and wanted to avoid getting close enough to touch it.
“What do you want?”
“I was thinking about you.
About the baby.”
Months earlier, those words would have cracked me open.
That morning, they only made me tired.
“You had months to think about us.”
