I leaned toward Mom and whispered that she shouldn’t sign anything yet. But she was overwhelmed. Her husband had been dead for barely two days, and she simply wanted everything finished. She reached into her purse for her checkbook. Then the office door suddenly opened.
An elderly man stood in the doorway wearing a faded flannel shirt and an American Legion cap. He carried a thick manila folder beneath his arm and looked as though he’d hurried all the way from the street. “Ma’am, do not sign that,” he said. Kyle immediately objected, explaining that this was a private consultation. The stranger ignored him and looked directly at my mother. “Retta, it’s Gene Sobieski. From the post. Arthur made me promise.” Mom stared at him in disbelief. Gene approached the desk, placed his folder over the $17,900 bill, and opened it. Then he explained what my father had discovered in the original funeral contract.
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