(This is officially the longest story I have written. To whoever clicks on this writing, I appreciate the time you spent reading this.)

Enjoy.

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After the death of my father, the rest of my family—which consisted of my mom, sister, older brother, and younger brother; were all scrambling along with their lawyers present. They were all wondering:

Who would inherit his belongings and properties.

I made my way to his estate, where they were to read his will to the family. When I got there, everyone was waiting impatiently for my father’s lawyer to arrive. As I was waiting, I could hear them.

“I am and will always be dad’s favorite.” said my sister.

“What are you talking about? We all know dad gave me more attention than any of us boys.” exclaimed my older brother.

“In your dreams. Dad always gave me everything I wanted. After all, I am the youngest of the family.” answered my younger brother.

“Once I inherit my husband’s properties, you are all getting kicked to the curb.” said my mother, with a grin on her face.

Then, there was a knock on the door.

It was my father’s lawyer.

I welcomed her inside, and told her to make herself at home. “Ha, acting like you already own the place, huh. Well too bad, this house is as good as mine.” Said my mother.

The lawyer—whose name was Clarice, handed us each an envelope written specifically for us. She then told us to start reading in order from the oldest person in the family to the youngest, excluding me.

I of course had already known. I wasn’t really a part of this family.

I was adopted.

My father had saved me from his abusive older brother. When he got wind of how much debt he was in, he paid a visit to him, only to find me at home alone with bruises and cuts all over my body and face. That was when he took my real father to court to gain custody of me. Ever since, I’ve been living with my new family. The way they acted was harsh, but they never hit me or anything, so I was able to bear it until I could live on my own.

My mother began to read her note first:

“To Margaret,

You always kept time—not with me, but around me. Watching the clock, waiting out the years. So I leave you the kitchen timer. It never meant anything to you, just like I eventually didn’t.

You won’t get the house, or the savings, or my name. Those go elsewhere—to the ones who looked away when it mattered, and to the one who didn’t.

There’s also a small wooden box. It’s not for you.”

—Tommy

She sat there in shock. My brothers and my sister all laughed at her as she stormed out in anger. Then my older brother read his:

“To James,

You were always first—firstborn, first praised, first forgiven. But never the first to show up when I needed someone.

I leave you the garage key. The car’s gone, of course—like you, whenever things got hard. All that’s left is dust and empty space. Seems fitting.

What mattered went to someone else.”

—Your father, Thomas

He immediately stood up, ripped the paper to shreds and left without a word. My sister then began to read hers quickly:

“To Claire,

You spoke the right words when people were listening, but not when I was. Your silence did more damage than you’ll ever admit.

I leave you the mirror from the upstairs hall. Maybe now you’ll look long enough to see what you chose not to be.

What was real went elsewhere.”

—Your father, Thomas

She cried and repeatedly asked why she didn’t get anything of value but a worthless mirror. Then, my younger brother went next:

“To Michael,

You were never who I wanted you to be. Not strong enough, not sharp enough. But you were the last one left.

So I leave you everything: the house, the company, the debt, the expectations. The board is waiting, and the staff is gone. If it collapses, it collapses on you.

This isn’t a gift. It’s what I carried alone—now it’s your turn.”

—Your father, Thomas.

“WHAAAAAT!?! HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO HANDLE ALL OF THAT!?!” My younger brother yelled in a panic. Everyone then came back inside and sat down.

I was the only one left.

“You probably got a bag of dog food, suitable for someone like you.” My older brother James said. They all erupted in laughter. After all, the only time they ever seemed on the same page, was when they were insulting me.

I looked at my letter for a moment, wondering what I was going to get from him. He did so much for me—yet, I was never able to do anything grand for him. I was thinking this, then I opened my envelope, took a deep breath, and read my letter:

“To you,

You weren’t family by blood, but somehow, you were more than any of them. You listened without asking. You stayed without needing a reason. I didn’t say it while I had the chance—I wasn’t good at that. But I noticed.

Inside this box is a sapphire ring. It belonged to someone I once loved deeply, before I lost her—and before I lost myself. I don’t want it buried. I want it to go to someone who still knows how to carry love with grace.

You don’t owe me anything. But I leave you this one quiet piece of me, not for duty, not for legacy, but because I trusted you—the only one I did.

P.S. —Clarice, the lawyer who gave you this… watch the way she looks at you when she thinks you’re not paying attention. I noticed it the day you met. Go after that. Don’t wait as long as I did. I left you a small house with some land. It’s a bit messy—but I know you’ll put it to good use.

To my son—in all the ways that ever mattered,

From a father who was proud to call you his son,

—Dad.

I turned to the lawyer. Her face was beat red as she squirmed and turned away from me in a rush.

I looked at the letter again, then came a teardrop. Then another, and another. Then, the dam behind my eyes broke completely. When it did, someone came and held me from behind.

It was Clarice.

“Y-your father told me to do this when you began crying. He told me to hug you for him as well.” She said. I cried harder, while clinging to her.

“Uhh this is stupid, I’m leaving.” My older brother said as he got up and left. My mother, sister, and younger brother all followed.

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The chapel was small. Just a few rows of chairs, some quiet music, and her—standing across from me, dressed in something simple but impossibly beautiful.

I held her hands, but my thoughts drifted.

“He would’ve hated the flower arrangements.” I thought.

“Too soft. Too sentimental. He probably would’ve grunted at the music and stayed standing in the back with his arms crossed. But maybe—just maybe—he’d have stayed.”

“Maybe he’d have watched me the way I once watched him work in silence, sleeves rolled up, never asking for help but always bearing the weight of everything.”

“He didn’t leave me love in the way most people get it. No embraces, no proud words when I was younger. But I see it now—in what he gave, in what he carried, in what he gave me to carry.”

“The house. The land. The mess.”

“And her.”

I never thought I’d be the one to stand here. And I never thought I’d be doing it with someone who saw me before I ever saw myself. But she did. Just like he did—in his own quiet, complicated way.

I don’t know if he’d call this happiness. But I think, wherever he is, he’d nod. Maybe even crack a smile he thought no one could see.

So this is for him, too.

For the father I thought didn’t care.

For the man who gave me nothing easy, but something lasting.

And for the one thing he made sure I wouldn’t miss when it finally arrived.

Clarice.