At Dinner, My Sister Drenched Me In Wine, Shouting: “You Have Until Sunrise To Get Out Of My House!” My Parents Cheered Her On. I Just Smiled, Dropped A Key On The Table, And Replied: “THEN YOU HAVE 60 SECONDS…”

The funeral home had smelled of lilies and old wood polish. I’d been sitting alone in the back row while my family clustered together near the front, deliberately excluding me as always. Lauren had been holding court, dramatically dabbing at dry eyes while our parents comforted her.

Nobody comforted me.

Nobody ever did.

After the service, as everyone filed out for the reception, Eleanor’s lawyer, Mr. Harold Whitman, had approached me quietly. He was a distinguished man in his seventies, with silver hair and kind eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses.

“Miss Jenna, might I have a word with you privately?” he’d asked, glancing around to ensure we weren’t being watched.

We’d stepped into a small side room, and what he told me changed everything.

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