The lawyer’s voice was smooth and controlled—the kind trained to deliver bad news without emotion.

Peggy sat upright, hands folded in her lap, just like she had learned decades ago when she first worked in Richard Morrison’s office. Across the table, his three children looked calm, almost expectant.

They weren’t grieving.

They were waiting.

As the will was read, everything unfolded exactly as they had hoped. The Brookline mansion, the bank accounts, the investments—everything was left to Steven, Catherine, and Michael.

Peggy stayed still, though her chest tightened.

She hadn’t expected everything.

But she had expected something.

A right to stay. Some acknowledgment. Something that proved forty years had mattered.

The lawyer turned a page.

“Peggy…” he said softly. “I’m very sorry.”

Then he read Richard’s words.

Cold. Formal. Distant.

Words that described her not as a wife—but as someone who had lived “comfortably,” benefited from his wealth, and provided “domestic support.”

Not love.

Not partnership.

Just… convenience.

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