„Dotknąłeś już funduszu?” – zapytał mój brat milioner w poranek Bożego Narodzenia. Zapytałem: „Jakiego funduszu?”, a trzy twarze zbladły.

I froze, completely frozen.

“What fund?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

My daughter Megan’s glass almost tipped over. I saw her fingers tremble around the crystal. My son-in-law Mark turned white, completely white, as if he had just seen a ghost. He dropped his fork onto his plate with a sharp clatter that echoed in the silence.

Arthur frowned. He leaned forward, confused.

“What do you mean? What fund, Eleanor? The investment fund I opened in your name. 3 years ago. $500,000. You’re the only beneficiary.”

I felt the floor open up beneath my feet. $500,000. Three years. I knew nothing about it. Absolutely nothing.

I looked at Megan. Her face was rigid. Her eyes avoided mine. Mark had stopped breathing. I noticed because his chest was no longer moving. He was motionless like a statue.

“Arthur,” I said slowly, feeling each word leave my mouth as if it weighed a ton, “I never received any documents. I never knew about that money.”

My brother turned pale.

“That’s impossible. I sent all the papers to this address in your name. Signed, notarized. I even called to confirm they had arrived.”

A silence so deep fell that I could hear the wall clock in the living room. Each tick sounded like a hammer blow.

Arthur looked at Megan.

“Did you receive any certified mail for your mother? Anything from First American Trust?”

Megan opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again.

“I… I don’t remember.”