"The house," the lawyer began, "goes to Charlotte."
A sickening twist of disbelief churned in my stomach. It was what I expected, but it still felt like a punch to the gut. I wasn’t going to argue. What was the point? But I couldn’t help but ask, silently, why my father had done this to me.
Then, the lawyer turned to me. "And to you, Dawn," he said, handing me a small box. "Your father left you this."
My fingers trembled as I opened it. It was Dad’s watch.
Worn, scratched, and barely ticking, it had been a fixture on his wrist for as long as I could remember. It was all I had left of him. I felt the lump in my throat rise, threatening to choke me. Charlotte snorted derisively.
"Seriously? His watch?" she laughed. "Even after death, Dad’s still playing favorites."
I didn’t respond. I held the watch in my hands, my fingers tracing the leather strap that still carried the faint scent of him. The house, the possessions—it all meant nothing to me now. What I wanted most in the world was to have my father back.
