His time was running out.
When Richard died, I cried beside his bed.
I had lost the kindest man I had ever known.
But after the funeral, one practical thought entered my mind.
I was his wife.
Surely I would inherit the estate.
The next day, Richard’s lawyer came to see me.
He carried a leather briefcase and an envelope with my name written in Richard’s handwriting.
Then he said:
“He knew you’d fall for all of this and agree to marry him. But unfortunately, the will leaves you nothing from his estate.”
I stared at him.
“Sir, what are you talking about?”
For a moment, all my old fears returned.
Had Richard planned this from the beginning?
Had his kindness been some strange test?
The lawyer continued.
“Well, all this time, you never knew who Richard really was. But he did leave you something special. Open this envelope, and you’ll understand everything.”
My hands trembled as I opened it.
A faded newspaper photograph fell into my lap.
It showed a younger Richard standing outside a newly renovated shelter.
In his arms was a little girl with tangled hair and frightened eyes.
It was me.
