Not even the way the attorney looked at me as though he expected me to collapse.
Just the rain.
Cold Chicago rain streaked across the glass, making the office feel closed off from the rest of the world.
I sat in a leather chair that creaked whenever I moved, my hands folded tightly in my lap because I did not trust them not to shake.
Across the desk, a man in a gray suit placed three documents in front of me.
A trust file.
A bank verification letter.
A probate court receipt stamped 9:18 a.m. that Tuesday.
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