The waiting room was too bright and far too quiet.
The sharp scent of disinfectant clung to the air, mixing with the bitterness of old coffee that had been sitting out for hours. When I finally sank into one of the plastic chairs, my legs gave way beneath me. I had arrived in a blur—sirens, red lights, my heart pounding faster than my thoughts—after my stepmother collapsed without warning.
My hands trembled as I pulled out my phone. I hesitated before calling her daughter, Lina. My stepmother had always been clear about one thing:
“When the time comes,” she used to say calmly, “tell Lina. She’ll know what to do.”
At the time, I thought it sounded practical. Now it felt strangely final.
Two days later, when the doctor stepped into the hallway, his shoulders slumped and his voice barely above a whisper, I knew before he spoke. I made the call. Lina answered immediately.
“She’s gone,” I said, my throat tightening.
There was a pause on the line. No sobbing. No questions.
“I’ll take care of everything,” Lina replied, cool and efficient, and ended the call before I could say another word.
The funeral passed like a carefully choreographed performance.
Lina moved through it with polished grace, dressed in black from head to toe, greeting mourners and signing documents with steady hands. She looked composed, powerful—like someone who had already moved past grief into control.
I stayed near the back, unnoticed, saying little. I felt like an extra in a story that no longer included me.
When the will was read, nothing surprised Lina. The house. The savings. The jewelry. Every tangible thing was left to her. Then the lawyer handed me a thin envelope and a small jade plant in a plain clay pot.
That was it.
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