The following morning, we sat in the breakfast nook of our suite, the paper still lying between us like an unwelcome guest. The sun streamed in through the window, casting long shadows across the table.
I’d barely touched my food, the anxiety gnawing at my appetite. “What if this changes everything?” I asked, more to myself than to him.
“It won’t,” he assured me, pouring us both coffee. “We’ll talk to them, see what this really is. Maybe it’s just a misunderstanding.”
I nodded, though doubt lingered. The phone rang, startling us both. It was Mr. Wilson, the lawyer.
“I understand you have questions about the trust,” he began, his voice smooth, practiced. “It’s a standard arrangement, nothing to be concerned about.”
“But the conditions,” I pressed, “they’re not standard, are they?”
He paused, and in that silence, I felt the weight of what was unsaid. “I suggest discussing it with your husband’s parents,” he replied finally. “They can clarify their intentions better than I.”
As the call ended, I felt no closer to understanding than before. My husband squeezed my hand, but it was clear we were on our own.
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