My grandfather was old money, old fashioned, and apparently old perverted.
I never knew him well – he disapproved of my mother’s second marriage, called my stepdad “common stock” at Thanksgiving dinner once, and mostly communicated through lawyers and holiday cards with checks that got smaller every year.
When he died last month, I expected nothing.
I was wrong.
The lawyer’s office is all dark wood and leather chairs, the kind of old-money aesthetic my grandfather would have approved of. My stepdad sits beside me in a suit he clearly borrowed, uncomfortable and out of place. My mother couldn’t make it – “work emergency,” which means she didn’t want to deal with her father’s ghost even in legal form.
So it’s just me, my stepdad Richard, and a lawyer named Harrison Wells who looks like
