Then Lila laughed.
She tried to disguise it as a cough, but nobody believed her.
“Well,” she said, glancing around the lawyer’s office, “I suppose Mother made her feelings clear.”
I looked at her.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
She shrugged.
“Nothing. I’m only saying that people usually leave their most valuable things to the children they feel closest to.”
Our brother shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
“Lila, this isn’t the time.”
“When would be the right time?” she replied. “We’re here to discuss what Mother wanted. Apparently, she wanted Clara to have an old blanket.”
“It’s a shawl,” I said quietly.
Lila smiled.
“Of course. Forgive me. An old shawl.”
The lawyer gave her a disapproving look, but she ignored him.
My hands rested in my lap as I stared at the cardboard box.
The shawl had belonged to my mother for as long as I could remember.
It was once a deep shade of violet, though years of use had faded it to a soft gray-purple. Threads hung loose from the edges. One corner had been repaired with uneven stitches, and the fabric had grown thin in several places.
It looked worthless.
That was the truth.
No collector would have wanted it.
No auction house would have accepted it.
Even a charity shop might have thrown it away.
Still, seeing it there made my throat tighten.
My mother had worn that shawl on winter mornings while drinking tea by the kitchen window. She wrapped it around her shoulders when she sat beside me during thunderstorms. She carried it on long hospital visits and wore it while reading beside my grandmother’s bed.
But in that office, surrounded by relatives receiving houses and money, the shawl felt less like a gift and more like a message I could not understand.
Had my mother been disappointed in me?
Had I failed her without realizing it?
Had Lila been right?
I hated myself for wondering.
The lawyer pushed the box gently toward me.
