**THE MISSING WILL**
Dad’s lawyer called this morning. Said the will was… peculiar. Apparently, it leaves everything – the house, the business, *everything* – to Sarah. Not me. Not us.
I remember Dad, the way he always looked at her, that soft smile he reserved just for his “golden girl.” Even after she moved to California, he’d spend hours on the phone with her.
Now, staring at this copy of the will, a burning question is all that’s left, but as I glance at the lawyer’s notes, there’s something else, a second document mentioned. ⬇️
A second document. My hand trembled as I reread the lawyer’s scrawled note: “Addendum – witnessed by Elias Thorne. Location unclear.” Elias Thorne. Dad’s estranged brother, a man who hadn’t spoken to our family in over twenty years, a man whispered to be involved in some… shady dealings. A chill snaked down my spine. This wasn’t just about a will; it was about a decades-old rift, simmering beneath the surface of our seemingly idyllic family life.
Sarah, oblivious to my turmoil, called later that day, her voice dripping with saccharine sweetness. “Oh, darling, I’m so sorry,” she cooed, a hint of something else – triumph? – lurking beneath the surface. “I didn’t even know Dad had made a will. This is… unexpected.” Her words felt like daggers. The “unexpected” was the blatant injustice, the favoritism I’d witnessed my entire life, now codified in cold, legal language.
I confronted her. “The addendum,” I spat, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. “Elias Thorne. You know something about it, don’t you?”
Silence stretched between us, thick and heavy with unspoken accusations. Then, a fragile laugh. “Elias? Oh, darling, he’s a dreadful man. He’d do anything for money.” Her denial rang hollow.
My investigation began. Old photographs, dusty boxes, faded letters – I unearthed a hidden history of family secrets. I learned of a bitter feud over the family business, of a risky investment gone wrong, and Elias’s alleged involvement. The addendum, I suspected, was the key to unraveling it all. I found a clue – a faded postcard addressed to Elias, postmarked from a small coastal town called Seabrook.
Seabrook. A desolate place, clinging to the cliffs overlooking a turbulent sea. I found Elias in a ramshackle tavern, smelling of brine and regret. He was older, weathered, but his eyes still held a glint of cunning. He confessed, reluctantly, admitting to witnessing the addendum, a document that revoked the initial will, leaving everything to me. He’d been paid to keep quiet, a hefty sum from Sarah.
But there was a catch. The addendum, he explained, was conditional. Dad’s health had deteriorated rapidly; he’d added a clause – a final, heartbreaking condition: Sarah had to return to the family home within a month, tend to his final days, and show genuine remorse for the past. Only then would the addendum come into effect. Elias produced a crumpled copy, the ink faded but legible.
The callousness of it hit me hard. My father, in his final act, hadn’t just left a will; he’d left a test, a final challenge to his “golden girl.” Sarah, upon hearing this, arrived at the old family home a week later, not with genuine remorse, but a fury that burned brighter than any anger I’d ever felt. The document was a sham, she said, and she wouldn’t play along. She had no regrets.
As the deadline loomed, the future remained uncertain, a battleground of wills, emotions, and bitter revelations. The house, once a symbol of family unity, now stood as a testament to a legacy tainted by secrets and a fight that would never truly end. The will, in the end, was less about inheritance and more about the enduring power of unspoken resentments and the complexities of a family fractured beyond repair.