I didn’t stop. Whatever Grandpa had planned, he hadn’t decided it that afternoon. He had been preparing for this moment for years, and I suspected the green notebook was only the beginning.
The Attorney Arrives at Christmas Dinner
The December wind hit my face as I stepped onto the porch.
Mr. Dawson was sitting in his parked car, reading a document beneath the glow of the dashboard. He was Grandpa’s attorney, a quiet man in his late sixties who had helped my grandparents manage their affairs for nearly thirty years.
When I knocked on his window, he looked up.
“Is he ready?” he asked.
“Yes. Everyone is inside.”
Mr. Dawson gathered his papers.
“Then let’s go.”
As we crossed the porch, I noticed the farmhouse looked different from the outside. Warm light spilled through the windows, snow rested along the fence posts, and the old barn stood dark against the winter sky.
I had spent most of my childhood there. I learned to ride a bicycle in the driveway, collected eggs from Grandma’s chickens, and helped Grandpa repair fences after storms. During the county fair, he once carried me on his shoulders because I was too small to see over the crowd.
