PART 2
For three days, I contacted every family I had worked for before joining the Whitaker household. Most didn’t remember me. Two politely explained that they had no vacancies. By the third night, I sat at the kitchen table without touching my dinner. Danny had gone to bed early, sensing the anxiety I was trying to hide. The photo caught the last light of sunset, reminding me of the afternoon Mr. Whitaker had left it in my hands.
“Keep this, Marta, so you always remember this house.”
The phone rang. I let it ring three times before answering.
“Hello;”
“Is this Martha?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Nathaniel. I represented Mr. Whitaker. Before I continue, please be seated.”
I sat on a chair and looked at the photo.
“Mr. Whitaker changed his will four months before his death. He left you his entire estate—the mansion, the surrounding land, and a trust for your grandson’s education.”
“That can’t be right. Julian said the property belonged to him.”
“Julian was disinherited. His father recorded years of neglect and financial pressure. The signed documents are in my office.”
My hand gripped the edge of the table. As Nathaniel continued to explain, I lifted the frame and ran my thumb along its wooden base. One corner was loose. After the phone call, I turned it over and picked up the cardboard. A folded letter slid across the table. My name was written on it in Mr. Whitaker’s shaky handwriting.
