I was sitting at the kitchen table one chilly autumn evening when I got the call that Mom had died, striking me as strange — given the silence that followed, the letter revealing a fortune she left behind, and the cold, dismissive attitude of Mr. Clay, the bank manager, who seemed to want the money locked away forever.
The kitchen was dimly lit, the kind of light that made everything feel heavier. I sat at the table, my fingers tracing the edges…