I’m Ashley Morgan. I’m thirty-two. I live in a small, quiet apartment filled with books and historical maps, a peaceful contrast to the chaotic family I was born into.
My work as a museum archivist is my sanctuary, a place where history is neatly cataloged and the truth—however old—is preserved in ink and paper. But the truth in my own family was about to detonate a carefully constructed lie that had spanned more than three decades. All thanks to one final cruel act from my deceased father.
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The air in Mr. Peterson’s office was thick with the scent of old leather and fresh grief. It had been a week since my father, Dr.
David Morgan—a man whose hands were as skilled at surgery as they were at inflicting emotional wounds—had passed away from a sudden heart attack. My mother, Diane, sat perfectly composed in a plush armchair, her grief as curated as the charity galas she organized. My older sister, Jessica, sat beside her, occasionally dabbing a tearless eye with a silk handkerchief, a gesture I was certain she’d practiced for her next mournful social media post.
And then there was me, feeling like an outsider—a role I had played for as long as I could remember. Mr. Peterson, my father’s lawyer for over forty years, cleared his throat.
He was a kind man with weary eyes, someone who had seen our family through every major event, good and bad. “Thank you all for coming,” he began, his voice a gentle rumble. “David was a very precise man.
His will reflects that. He left specific instructions on how this reading was to be conducted.”
My mother nodded regally, as if expecting to be crowned the queen of his vast estate. Jessica gave my hand a squeeze that felt more like a warning than comfort.
She had always been the golden child—the one who could do no wrong in our father’s eyes. A successful social media influencer with over a million followers, she embodied the modern glamour and public success he admired. I, on the other hand, was the quiet academic one.
My passion for history and dusty archives was something my father openly called a frivolous hobby, not a career. He wanted a daughter who was a reflection of his own ambition, and Jessica played that part beautifully. I was a disappointment.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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