As we drive into downtown, the buildings rise around us in tall sheets of glass and steel.I’d pictured her in a cluttered bungalow or a bohemian loft smelling like incense and questionable decisions.Maybe I’m wrong.People change.Money changes people faster.
What I definitely didn’t picture was a high-rise with a valet and a doorman wearing white gloves.
“Mom,” Mila whispers, “are you sure we’re not accidentally rich?”
“We’re absolutely not,” I whisper back.“This wasn’t her.She married into this.I just need to understand why we’re involved in ...whatever this is.”
The sad part?I don’t even know how to finish that sentence.
My mother could have used financial help—if there had been any to give.Why didn’t Lina reach out?Maybe the lawyer knows.All he told me was that I had to be here, that we’d talk in her residence about next steps, and that I would need to make decisions about her estate.
Decisions.
Plural.
My least favorite word.
Decisions imply responsibility.And permanence.And the possibility of being tragically wrong.I can barely decide between cereal and toast for breakfast without consulting the universe, and now I’m supposed to determine the fate of someone’s estate?
This is what I like to call sweet irony at its finest.
That’s basically why I’m here.
That ...and because Mila lit up when I mentioned coming to Seattle.She says she misses it.I’m not entirely sure what she remembers—she’d barely turned four when we left.But kids hold onto strange pieces of their past, little fragments we never expect.
The lobby is a cathedral of marble and glass, a polished monument to money I can’t comprehend.Everything gleams.Everything feels staged, curated, designed for a life not meant for people like me, who lose things, spill things, and generally don’t match marble.
The driver unloads our suitcases onto the glossy floor.The doorman steps forward, crisp uniform, those spotless white gloves ...he’s flawless.
“You must be Mara Cavanagh,” he says with a polite nod.“I’m Martin.Welcome.Mr.Hanley, Mrs.Lafferty’s attorney, is waiting upstairs.Let me help you with your luggage.”
He gathers our bags as if they’re filled with feathers instead of my questionable life choices covered in gold leaf instead of stickers from every place we’ve drifted through.Then he gestures for us to follow, guiding us through the polished lobby toward the elevators.
Mila’s eyes dart everywhere, taking in the gold fixtures, the marble floors, the ridiculous fountain that has no business being indoors.Mine do the same—but with a rising awareness that my sneakers squeak a little too loudly.
When the elevator doors slide open, we step inside.The mirrored walls immediately betray me: travel-wrinkled jeans, a faded shirt, hair attempting a full-blown rebellion against gravity.
I tug at my shirt, but the mirror still reflects someone who definitely didn’t budget for this level of luxury.
Mila elbows me.“Mom.Stand up straight.You look like you don’t belong.”
Accurate.But totally rude.
“Martin,” I say with all the dignity I can scrape together, “this is Mila.She looks eight, but she’s forty.”
“I’m eight and three-quarters,” she corrects, dead serious.
Martin smiles warmly.“Nice to meet you, Miss Mila.”
The elevator begins its ascent, and the ride feels like rising into someone else’s life—one with clean lines, balanced budgets, and people who don’t lose their boarding passes every other flight.My breath thins in the small space, and I try to hide it, but the air seems to shrink around me anyway.
When the doors slide open, I lose whatever oxygen I had left.
There are only two doors on this floor, facing each other.One stands wide open, light spilling from within.A man in a suit waits just inside the threshold, posture perfect, his polite smile so polished it almost squeaks.Behind him stretches an apartment that looks like it was pulled straight out of a luxury magazine spread.
Mila steps out beside me and starts to whisper—only to crank the volume up halfway through.“Whoa.”
Same, kid.Same.
