“I am Helen Smith. Henry’s widow.”
Another pause, longer this time.
“Mrs. Smith, we have been trying to contact you for months. Where are you? Mr. Miller needs to see you urgently.”
I gave them the address of the square. They told me they would send a car in less than thirty minutes.
I went back to my bench and waited, clinging to those documents as if they were the only real thing in the world.
Maybe they were.
The car that arrived was black, elegant, with tinted windows. The driver got out and looked at me with a neutral, professional expression, as if picking up homeless women was part of his daily routine.
“Mrs. Smith?”
I nodded.
He loaded my suitcases into the trunk and opened the back door for me. The interior smelled of leather and expensive air freshener.
I felt dirty, out of place, but I did not care anymore.
The law firm was in the financial district, in one of those glass buildings reflecting the sky. We went up in a silent elevator to the fifteenth floor.
The receptionist looked me up and down but said nothing. She just pointed down a hallway.
“Lawyer Miller is waiting for you in his office.”
Robert Miller was a man in his fifties, with perfectly combed gray hair and thin-rimmed glasses. He stood up when I entered, and for a second I saw surprise on his face, seeing my state. But he quickly replaced it with a professional expression.
“Mrs. Smith, please take a seat. Can I offer you water? Coffee?”
“Water, please.”
My voice was barely a whisper.
He poured a glass from a crystal pitcher and handed it to me. I drank as if I had gone days without water, which in a way was true.
“Mrs. Smith, we have tried to locate you since Mr. Henry passed away. We left messages at your old house. We sent letters. Your son told us you had moved but did not provide us with contact information.”
“My son.”
The words came out bitter.
“My son kicked me out of his house three weeks ago. I have been living on the street.”
The lawyer frowned.
“I understand. I am very sorry to hear that. But I want you to know that your financial situation is very solid. Your husband was an extremely foresightful man. Have you reviewed the documents he left you?”
I took the crumpled envelope from my purse and put it on the desk.
“I found them yesterday. I do not understand everything they say.”
Robert reviewed them carefully.
“So, I see. These are duplicates. I have the original certified ones here. Let me explain your current situation, Mrs. Smith. You are the owner of thirteen properties in the city, valued at approximately eight million dollars in total. Additionally, you have investments in funds and stocks worth an additional two million. Your husband also left you three bank accounts with available cash of approximately five hundred thousand dollars.”
The numbers floated in the air like something unreal.
Ten million dollars.
Ten million.
And I had been looking for food in dumpsters.
“It cannot be real,” I whispered.
“It is completely real, Mrs. Smith. And there is something else you should know. One of the buildings you own is on Magnolia Street, number 452. According to our records, your son, Michael Smith, and his wife, Linda, occupy apartment 301 in that building.”
“That is correct.”
I nodded slowly.
“That is correct.”
“Then you should know that they have been living there under a reduced-rent contract your husband granted them five years ago. They paid barely four hundred dollars a month for an apartment that would be worth twenty-five hundred on the market. It was a family favor Mr. Henry granted them.”
Four hundred dollars.
Michael was paying four hundred dollars to live in a luxury apartment thanks to his father’s generosity. And he had kicked me out to the street. He had left me with nothing.
The lawyer continued talking, explaining details about taxes, property management, but I was barely listening. My mind was processing something else.
“Can I cancel that contract?” I asked suddenly, interrupting him.
Robert stopped and looked at me intently.
“You are the owner, Mrs. Smith. You can do whatever you wish with your properties. However, there are legal procedures we must follow. You cannot simply kick them out without notice.”
“I do not want to kick them out yet.”
The words came out cold. Calculated.
“I want them to adjust their rent to the market price. Twenty-five hundred, you said. Let them pay that.”
The lawyer nodded slowly.
“That is within your rights. We would have to notify them thirty days in advance about the change in contract terms. Are you sure you want to proceed?”
“Completely sure.”
Robert took notes on his computer.
“Very well. I will prepare the necessary documents. Now, Mrs. Smith, there are more immediate matters we must attend to. Your housing situation, for example. You have several options. You can move into any of your properties that are vacant, or I can help you find a temporary place while you decide what to do.”
“I want to see the other buildings. All of them. I want to know exactly what I have.”
