Three days later, I stepped into Mr. Miller’s office wearing a navy coat and my most sensible shoes. Not because I was trying to impress him, but because I wanted to remind myself that I still had dignity.
Mr. Miller came out to greet me, elegant and professional, the kind of man who looked like he belonged in any room.
“Mrs. Herrera,” he said warmly, shaking my hand. “It’s been a long time.”
“It has,” I replied. “And I need you to help me make some changes.”
He gestured toward a chair across from his desk. The surface was polished, uncluttered, and expensive, like the kind of desk that belongs to someone who has never had to choose between rent and groceries.
I sat down anyway, steady as I could manage.
“I want you to review all my assets,” I said. “Everything. Properties, investment accounts, insurance policies, and any updated paperwork from my father’s estate.”
Mr. Miller nodded, pulled out a thick file, and began turning pages with the careful attention of someone who understands that numbers tell stories.
As he read, I watched his expression shift. Not into shock, exactly. More like confirmation.
“Your father planned well,” he murmured. “And you’ve managed this responsibly.”
He tapped a page with his pen, then looked up at me.
“You currently hold multiple properties and investment accounts,” he said. “Total estimated net worth is approximately eight hundred forty thousand dollars.”
Even though I already knew, hearing it out loud tightened something in my chest.
Eight hundred forty thousand.
Ethan had treated me like a burden over nineteen thousand.
I leaned forward slightly.
“Mr. Miller,” I said, “I want to update my will. Immediately.”
He studied my face. “Of course. May I ask why?”
“Because my son announced at his wedding that someone else is his real mother,” I replied. “And then he asked me for more money the next day. I need my retirement planning to reflect reality, not fantasy.”
Mr. Miller took a slow breath and nodded.
“All right,” he said. “Tell me what you want.”
