The days that followed were harder than I wanted to admit. My daughter, Alfreda, listened as I explained what happened, but she had a family and bills of her own. She couldn’t offer me a place to stay or enough money to solve my problems. I tried not to blame her. Life had become expensive for everyone, and at seventy-two, I knew how quickly security could disappear. Still, I couldn’t understand how Henrietta’s son could treat me like a stranger after all those years. I placed the check in a drawer, unable to bring myself to cash it.

Then, one morning, the telephone rang. It was Rosella, a woman who worked at the county register of deeds office. She told me she needed to see me at the courthouse and insisted it was important. I nearly refused because I had no idea what business the county could have with me. But something in her voice made me reconsider. I put on my best blouse, grabbed my purse, and drove into town. When I arrived, Rosella was waiting with a thick folder on her desk. She looked at me seriously and said, “Elnora, you need to see what Henrietta left behind.”