The lawyer’s office smelled of old wood and something vaguely floral that did not agree with Clara. She kept her hands clasped tightly in her lap, the polished wood of the conference table reflecting the harsh fluorescent lights above. Her brother, Thomas, sat across from her, a picture of placid contentment, fiddling with the signet ring on his finger. He was inheriting the family home, a sprawling mansion nestled on acres of rolling hills. Clara was getting the family’s collection of antique thimbles. A collection that now seemed laughably insignificant.
She cleared her throat, the sound a dry rasp in the quiet room. “And the thimbles…what is their estimated worth?”
The lawyer, a man with a perpetually sympathetic frown, shuffled some papers. "They are… sentimental objects, Miss Clara. Not particularly valuable." Clara felt a vein throb in her forehead. She wanted to scream, to lash out, but years of ingrained decorum held her back.
Later, she walked the city streets. The setting sun cast long shadows, turning the world a vibrant orange. Every couple holding hands, every group of laughing friends, every happy family she passed felt like a personal affront. She kicked a discarded soda can, the metallic clang echoing her simmering resentment. The thimbles, crammed into a velvet-lined box, felt heavy in her arms.