Rita Lynn Babcock had a good life. At the age of sixty-two she had no health issues; her husband, Paul, a cardiac surgeon, still loved her madly; and their daughter, Val, was founding partner of an eponymous law firm. Rita was thankful for her blessings, but at the moment her heart was heavy. Two days ago she’d buried her mother, Ida Merchant. Except for an indiscretion Rita had committed at the age of seventeen, they’d never had reason to share a cross word. Now Rita Lynn and Paul were meeting with their lawyer in his office to discuss Ida’s will.
“Please, have a seat.”
The lawyer, Dexter West, was an old college friend of Paul’s. He took a moment to look through the stack of papers before him, as if to make sure all was in order. The estate wasn’t large. Ida hadn’t been wealthy by any means, but she’d been well loved and, until her stroke eighteen months ago, maintained her own home and finances.
With Dexter’s guidance, Rita and Paul made the final arrangements for Ida’s earthly possessions, from her house to the ten-year-old sky-blue Toyota she’d lovingly called Gladys. Her extensive cache of African-American history books was donated to the local library, and all the money left in her bank account after her bills were paid would be going to True Saints AME, the church she’d worshipped in and loved for over half a century. As executrix, Rita affixed her signature to each document Dexter slid her way, and when they were all done, she put her fingertips to the corners of her teary eyes to staunch the flow.
Paul gave her shoulder a tender squeeze and said softly, “It’s okay, babe.” Five years ago they’d buried his beloved mom, so he understood her grief.
“There’s one more thing,” Dexter said gently. He handed her a sealed envelope. “Your mother gave this to me a few years back. She asked me to hold on to it until her passing.”
Rita paused. “What is it?”
“You should read it.”
His face told her nothing, but she had a strong sense of foreboding. She looked to Paul and received a reassuring nod. The letter was one page and penned in her mother’s strong handwriting. She read the beginning silently, but by the midpoint her eyes had widened. She whispered in a shocked and broken voice, “No!” The further she read, the louder her “No!” echoed, until she was screaming the denial again and again from the depths of her broken heart.