“I’m aware of that,” he said. He didn’t sit down. He didn’t soften his expression.

“She left something for you, with very specific instructions about when to deliver it,” he said.

From inside his jacket, he produced a cream envelope—heavy stock, sealed with red wax bearing a notary’s stamp.

“What is this?” I asked.

“Her will,” he said. “The real one. The one your father doesn’t know exists.”

I stared at the envelope. The notary seal read “Woods and Associates.” The date was September 12, 2019.