The box almost fell out of my lap as I slid to the floor next to the mail desk. I just sat there for a while, staring at the crust, feeling my heartbeat behind my eyes. The receptionist jumped and came around to see if I was okay. I showed her the note and explained what had happened. She helped me up with the box, note still in my hand, and advised me to go nap it off. ‘Some things seem easier after a little nap,’ she said.
I didn’t even know what the note meant at first, until three days later, when a lawyer called me. His name was Paul. He had a calm voice and sharp diction. He asked me to confirm my name and if I had been delivering baked goods to the local hospice for nearly six months.
‘Yes,’ I said, though I barely recognized my own voice.
‘Then you may want to sit down,’ he said. ‘Margaret Hendley passed away last week. She named you as the sole beneficiary of her estate.’
I blinked, trying to process if I’d heard him properly, then second-guessed if he’d called the right person. ‘Excuse me? What estate?’
‘Yes. Her home, car, personal belongings, and a trust fund left by her late husband, which she never used, are all yours. The trust accrued interest for nearly 20 years without her touching it. Its value is $5.3 million.’
I laughed while curled up on a bus bench outside the library, holding an open backpack full of scholarship forms. I looked at them, then at the sky. My laughter was this strange, sharp sound that almost scared me!
‘But… she didn’t even know who I was,’ I said.
‘Actually, she did,’ he replied. ‘She asked the hospice staff to help her find you. One of the night nurses memorized your coat, the red one with a missing button, and your gray knit hat. She followed you at a distance one evening and saw you enter the shelter. The nurse spoke to the receptionist and found your name and heard the story of how you ended up there.’
‘She… followed me?’
‘Margaret wanted to thank you. Quietly and kindly, without scaring you away.’
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