When my siblings and I gathered for Dad’s will reading, I expected a quiet, bittersweet moment — a little closure, maybe a few tears. What I didn’t expect was a punch to the chest.
The lawyer announced calmly: Lara would inherit the house — everything in it. She smiled like she’d just won the lottery. And me? I walked away with… nothing.
Then he handed me a small wooden chess set.
“And Kate,” he said, “your father wanted you to have this.”
Lara laughed, disbelief written across her face. “A chessboard?” she scoffed. I said nothing, taking the set home, anger simmering under my skin.
That night, the chess set slipped from my hands and scattered on the floor. One piece — the rook — made a hollow sound when it hit. Inspecting it closer, I noticed a tiny seam. Inside was a rolled-up note in Dad’s handwriting: “Kate, start with the rook.”
Curiosity overtook me. One by one, I opened each carved piece. Inside were notes — memories only Dad and I shared: learning to ride my bike, whispered fears late at night, quiet evenings when his illness was too much, and I stayed by his side. Each note was raw, intimate, proof that he had carried these moments with him, even when he couldn’t speak them aloud.
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