But that evening, they knocked.
I had just come home from work, exhausted to the bone. My heels thudded against the floor by the door, my bag collapsing onto a kitchen chair. I reheated leftovers in the microwave with the quiet resignation only working adults understand.
The stillness felt soothing. I poured myself a glass of water, sat at the table, and inhaled deeply.
Then my phone vibrated against the wood.
An unfamiliar number flashed across the screen. For a moment, I considered ignoring it. Debt collector? Sales call? Mistaken number? But something — instinct, fate, maybe even dread — pushed me to answer.
“Hello?”
“Is this Anna?” The voice was calm, precise, too formal to be casual.
“Yes…” I replied carefully.
“My name is Mr. Whitman. I’m an attorney. I represent your stepmother, Helen.”
The fork froze midair. My throat tightened. I hadn’t heard her name spoken in years, and suddenly it felt like a ghost had whispered it.
“Helen?” My voice cracked.
“Yes,” he said gently. “I’m very sorry to inform you… Helen has passed away. And I need you to attend the reading of her will.”
The air shifted, pressing in around me. My thoughts spiraled. Why me? Why now?
“I… I haven’t spoken to Helen in decades,” I said quickly. “I don’t understand. Why are you calling me?”
“I can’t discuss details over the phone,” he replied. “But your presence is required.”
My heart pounded against my ribs. Every instinct urged me to hang up, to shield the life I had built. But curiosity — sharp and relentless — tightened its grip.
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