My name is Megan. My father died on a Tuesday. By Friday, my brother was screaming at me in the hallway of the funeral home.
« You’re paying for it. All of it, » Jason said. « Eleven thousand dollars. Don’t look at me like that. »
« Jason, we’re both his kids. »
« You were the favorite! » he snapped. « Dad always picked you. Always. So you can pay for the casket, too. »
I stared at him. Our father was lying in the next room.
« Favorite? » I whispered. « I took care of him for three years. I drove him to chemo. I slept in a chair next to his bed. Where were you? »
« Busy, » he said. « Some of us have lives. »
He turned around and walked out. Just like that.
I sank onto a bench beside the flower arrangements and finally broke down. I didn’t have eleven thousand dollars. I had maybe nineteen hundred in savings. And I had just lost my dad.
There was a particular cruelty in the way he said it, and I felt it more than the words themselves. My father had been gone for three days. I had spent those three days making phone calls, choosing readings, and answering the same questions from relatives who meant well. Jason had spent them deciding how much I owed him. And now he was gone, and I was sitting on a bench in a funeral home, crying in front of flower arrangements I had not chosen, with a bill I could not pay and a brother who had just walked out the door.
« Miss Carter? » I looked up. It was Mr. Harlan, the funeral director. Tall. Gray suit. Kind, tired eyes. He had clearly heard every word.
« I’m so sorry, » he said softly. « Could I speak with you privately? »
I wiped my face and followed him into his office. He closed the door. Sat down. Opened a drawer and pulled out a thick cream-colored envelope.
« Your father came to see me six months ago, » he said. « He gave me this. And he left very specific instructions. »
My heart pounded. « What instructions? »
« He told me to give it to you, » Mr. Harlan said, sliding it across the desk, « only if your brother said exactly what he said today. »
I stared at him. « He knew? »
Mr. Harlan didn’t answer. He just nodded toward the envelope.
My name was written across the front in Dad’s shaky handwriting. My hands trembled as I touched the flap.
For a moment I could not open it. I sat there with my fingers on the edge of the envelope, and I thought about the last six months — the chemo appointments, the long drives, the nights I slept in a chair beside his bed because he did not want to be alone. He had known, all that time, that this day was coming. And he had sat in this very office and made a plan for it.
« Mr. Harlan, » I said quietly, « did he say anything else? »
The funeral director looked at me for a long moment before he answered.
« He said you would try to pay for everything yourself, » he said. « And he said not to let you. »