But the trust owned something else.
A piece of land.
I looked at the address.
My childhood street.
“No.”
Samuel nodded.
“The old Whitmore property.”
Walter’s childhood home had been demolished decades earlier.
The land had later been subdivided.
Walter quietly bought one remaining parcel after Joan died.
“Why?”
“Keep reading.”
There was no house on it.
No secret mansion.
Just a half-acre lot overlooking the creek where Walter and I used to walk.
The trust gave me ownership.
Along with enough money to maintain it and the garage contents.
Nothing extravagant.
Then I saw the valuation.
I frowned.
“This isn’t enough to cause his children to panic.”
Samuel almost smiled.
“No.”
“Then why did Peter act like I was stealing everything?”
“Because Peter did not know how the estate was structured.”
Of course.
Walter had not explained every detail while dying.
His children saw an elderly father marry a woman they barely knew three weeks after reconnecting with her.
