“She wanted you to have her home,” Dennis said gently.
My eyes snapped to his. “Her home? Me?”
He nodded. “Before she entered assisted living, in her will, she made it very clear that her home was meant for you.”
I blinked at him, stunned.
“But why? I mean, why go through all this trouble? Why leave it to me?”
Dennis opened a file folder and slid over a few more items.
One was a worn library card application — my name scrawled in a child’s hand.
Another was the photograph: me holding a mug with too many marshmallows. Charlotte had taken it. I remembered that day as if it were sealed in amber!
And then there was a note — one Dennis read aloud because I couldn’t stop shaking.
“She said you reminded her of her granddaughter, Lila,” he said quietly.
“Lila passed away when she was 12 due to neglect. Charlotte said you had the same quiet sadness and fierce spark underneath.”
The pieces fell into place in my head like a slow, aching puzzle.
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