**THE MISSING WILL**
Grandma Esther always favored my brother, Mark. We all knew it, but never spoke of it. Today, the lawyer called. “Come immediately,” he said, his voice tight. “There’s… been a development regarding Esther’s will.”
I arrived to find Mark already there, looking smug. The lawyer cleared his throat, shuffling papers. “The original will, leaving everything to Mr. Mark Harrison, seems to be… missing.” He held up a flimsy photocopy. “This is all we have.”
Mark’s face changed. Gone was the smugness, replaced by a confused, desperate anger. “But that’s impossible! Where is it? Who would—” He stopped, his gaze locking onto mine. ⬇️
Mark’s gaze locked onto mine, suspicion hardening his features. “You,” he accused, his voice a low growl. “You took it.”
My blood ran cold. Accusation hung heavy in the air, thick and suffocating like the lawyer’s somber silence. “I didn’t,” I protested, my voice trembling slightly, a desperate plea lost in the suffocating tension. “I wouldn’t.”
The lawyer, Mr. Finch, a man whose face usually held the placid neutrality of a judge, looked deeply troubled. “Mr. Harrison, Miss Eleanor, I understand your distress, but accusing each other won’t help. We need to find the original will.”
Days bled into weeks. The police were involved, their investigation a slow, frustrating process. Mark, initially furious, became withdrawn, haunted by the fear of losing everything. He started drinking heavily, the shadows under his eyes deepening with each passing day. The comfortable façade of our family crumbled, revealing a bitter undercurrent of resentment that had always simmered beneath the surface.
One rainy afternoon, while going through Grandma Esther’s attic – a chaotic labyrinth of forgotten memories – I stumbled upon a small, locked wooden box. Inside, nestled amongst yellowed photographs and dried flowers, was a second photocopy of the will, identical to the one Mr. Finch had. But this one had something else: a tiny, almost invisible handwritten note on the back. It was in Grandma Esther’s spidery script: “To my dearest Eleanor, a small token of my true affection.”
My heart hammered. The will, leaving everything to Mark, was a fabrication. This second copy, seemingly insignificant, was the key. I raced to Mr. Finch’s office, my hands shaking. The note, the second copy, everything pointed to a deliberate deception. But who would orchestrate such a complex lie? And why?
Mr. Finch’s eyes widened as he examined the note and the photocopy. He made a call, his face paling as he listened. Then he hung up, his gaze settling on me, filled with a mixture of shock and dawning understanding.
“It seems,” he said slowly, his voice barely a whisper, “Mark wasn’t the only beneficiary, after all. Your name appears in a codicil, attached to the original will, which has been discovered… in a safe deposit box, under a completely different name. The box was opened by the executor named in the original, the same executor who also forged the will leaving everything to your brother.” He paused, his gaze unwavering. “The executor… was your Aunt Mildred.”
The revelation hit me like a physical blow. Aunt Mildred, always the sweet, unassuming one, the family peacemaker, had betrayed us all. She’d manipulated the situation, using Mark as a pawn in her scheme to gain control of Grandma Esther’s considerable fortune.
The police arrived, arresting Aunt Mildred. Mark, initially stunned into silence, then wept openly, the weight of the deception and the guilt of his unjust accusations finally crushing him.
The original will was duly executed, dividing Grandma Esther’s estate fairly, though not equally, and leaving a significant portion to me – a testament to the concealed affection Grandma Esther had always held for me. The family would never be the same, the wounds left by suspicion and betrayal running deep. But amidst the wreckage, there was a fragile sense of justice restored. The truth, though painful, had finally been unveiled, leaving behind an open-ended question: could the family ever truly heal, or would the lingering shadow of Mildred’s treachery forever cast a pall over their memories?