The musty smell of the lawyer's office clung to Leo. He shifted in his seat, the worn leather squeaking a protest. His sister, Clara, sat ramrod straight beside him, radiating an unnerving calm. "The will states," the solicitor began, adjusting his spectacles, "that Leo inherits the family home and its contents. Clara, you receive the estate's stock portfolio." Leo’s stomach twisted. He pictured the house, the old, creaky floorboards, the garden he’d always struggled to keep. The weight of it settled on his shoulders, a familiar burden.
He felt the familiar thrum of unease in his chest, a buzzing that had become commonplace since he’d lost his job. He glanced at Clara, whose face remained a mask of polite interest. She'd always been so effortlessly capable, so sure of herself.
The solicitor paused, clearing his throat. "However, there's a codicil. A small trust fund was established for Leo, to be accessed for home maintenance." Leo felt a flicker of relief, quickly squashed. It was a lifeline, a safety net. But it also felt like another chain, another reason to stay anchored.
He hated the thought of asking Clara for anything, for any assistance with the house, or anything really. He hated the idea of her pity. He hated how he always seemed to need her, even when he desperately didn’t want to.