The pain sat heavy in my chest. I missed our Saturday chess games in her sunroom. I missed her sharp humor, her stories from wartime, and the way she squeezed my hand whenever my parents made cruel little remarks about my choices.
“She’s in a better place,” my mother announced loudly as the casket was lowered, making sure everyone could hear.
I said nothing.
Because I knew the better place was anywhere far away from them.
Two days later, we met inside the mahogany office of Mr. Henderson, the estate attorney. The room smelled of old documents and greed.
My parents sat together on the leather sofa, holding hands and looking eager. I sat alone in a stiff wooden chair near the corner. I was Elena, the strange daughter who had left home, the one who did not marry a doctor or a banker, the one whose job my mother described as “something government-related and dull.”
Mr. Henderson cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses.
