The shawl had belonged to my mother for as long as I could remember.
It was once a deep shade of violet, though years of use had faded it to a soft gray-purple. Threads hung loose from the edges. One corner had been repaired with uneven stitches, and the fabric had grown thin in several places.
It looked worthless.
That was the truth.
No collector would have wanted it.
No auction house would have accepted it.
Even a charity shop might have thrown it away.
Still, seeing it there made my throat tighten.
My mother had worn that shawl on winter mornings while drinking tea by the kitchen window. She wrapped it around her shoulders when she sat beside me during thunderstorms. She carried it on long hospital visits and wore it while reading beside my grandmother’s bed.
But in that office, surrounded by relatives receiving houses and money, the shawl felt less like a gift and more like a message I could not understand.
Had my mother been disappointed in me?
Had I failed her without realizing it?
Had Lila been right?
I hated myself for wondering.
The lawyer pushed the box gently toward me.
