Скачать или смотреть Get out, you're not family!" my brother yelled at the reading of the will. Then the attorney...

The room smelled like old leather and polished mahogany, the kind of scent that clings to places where fortunes are divided and families break apart. I sat in the corner chair of Hartwell and Associates, my hands folded in my lap, trying to make myself smaller than I already felt. The attorney, Mr. Kenneth Hartwell, cleared his throat for the third time, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses as he prepared to read my father's will.

My brother Derek stood by the window, his expensive suit catching the gray November light filtering through the Portland rain. He'd flown in from New York that morning, and somehow in the six hours since Dad's funeral, he'd already managed to make everyone feel like guests in his inheritance. Before we jump back in, tell us where you're tuning in from, and if this story touches you, make sure you're subscribed because tomorrow, I've saved something extra special for you.

My mother Patricia sat in the center of the room, her black dress immaculate, her face a careful mask of grief that hadn't cracked once during the service. Beside her, Derek's wife Vanessa scrolled through her phone with barely concealed boredom. My younger sister Claire perched on the arm of Mom's chair, her eyes red from actual tears. She was the only one who'd loved Dad the way I had, the only one who remembered him as more than a checkbook. Mr. Hartwell opened the leather portfolio with practiced solemnity.

To my wife Patricia Brooks, he began, I leave the family home in West Hills and all furnishings therein, along with the investment portfolio managed by Sterling Financial Group. My mother's lips curved into a smile so slight it could have been a trick of the light. To my son Derek Alexander Brooks, I leave the commercial properties on Morrison Street, the vacation home in Bend, and controlling interest in Brooks Development Company.

Derek's posture straightened with satisfaction. He didn't look at me, but I felt his smugness radiating across the room like heat from a furnace. To my daughter Claire Elizabeth Brooks, Mr. Hartwell continued, I leave the sum of two hundred thousand dollars for her education and future endeavors, to be held in trust until her twenty-fifth birthday. Claire squeezed Mom's hand, relief washing over her face.