The Inheritance of Scorn
The mahogany table in the lawyer’s office was polished to a mirror finish, reflecting the cold, smug faces of my sisters-in-law, Evelyn and Beatrice. Clara, my mother-in-law, had been gone for only three days, but the scent of her expensive Chanel No. 5 seemed to linger in the air, a final reminder of her suffocating presence.
She had spent twenty years making sure I knew exactly where I stood: as a "temporary addition" to their blue-blooded family, a commoner who had dared to marry her favorite son, Mark.
Mr. Sterling, the family’s long-time estate attorney, adjusted his spectacles, his face a mask of professional neutrality. He cleared his throat and began reading the Last Will and Testament. The air in the room was thick with anticipation—and greed. In the state of New York, probate laws can be a labyrinth, but Clara had made her intentions crystal clear.
"To my eldest daughter, Evelyn, I bequeath the Hampton property and the diversified investment portfolio held in the family trust," Sterling read. Evelyn let out a curated sob, though her eyes were already calculating the property tax implications. "To Beatrice, the family’s jewelry collection and the ancestral vacation home."
Then, the room went silent. Mark, my husband, sat beside me, staring at his hands. He hadn't looked at me once since the funeral. He knew what was coming. He knew his mother’s spite better than anyone.
"And finally," Mr. Sterling’s voice dropped an octave, "regarding my daughter-in-law, Sarah... Clara’s instructions are specific. She leaves Sarah 'the lesson she deserves' for her years of misplaced ambition, along with the contents of the old cleaning supplies closet in the attic of the family manor."
A sharp, jagged laugh escaped Beatrice’s lips. "A lesson and a mop. How fitting for a girl from your neighborhood, Sarah," she sneered. I looked at Mark, waiting for a spark of outrage, a defense of our ten-year marriage. But there was only silence. He was too afraid of losing his own inheritance to speak for his wife.
I stood up, the legs of the heavy chair screeching against the hardwood floor like a wounded animal. I didn't cry. I had cried enough over Clara’s remarks while she was alive.
I walked out of that office with nothing but the clothes on my back and a burning sense of betrayal.
I retreated to the manor that night, hidden away in the drafty guest room as the rest of the family toasted to their new fortunes downstairs. I began packing my few belongings, my movements robotic. As I dragged my heavy suitcase toward the closet, my heel caught on a loose edge of the antique rug. I stumbled, kicking a floorboard that sounded strangely hollow.
In this house of legal secrets and hidden agendas, something was buried beneath my feet. I knelt down, my fingers trembling as I pried at the wood. I wasn't looking for money—I was looking for a way to survive. But what I was about to find would do much more than that; it would set the entire family estate on fire.
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