A week later, Frank’s attorney, Mr. Delgado, called and asked me to come into his office alone, without the children present.
He reached into a drawer and pulled out a small metal box, sealed with an old brass lock.
“Frank came to see me four months before he passed,” he said. “He was very specific about how this was handled, and who was allowed to be in the room when you opened it.”
“There’s a letter taped underneath,” Mr. Delgado added. “He asked me to have you read that first.”
I turned the box over.
And the moment I recognized Frank’s handwriting, my eyes filled with tears.
PART 2
I peeled the envelope from the bottom of the box and opened it with shaking hands.
“My Patricia,” it began, in Frank’s careful script.
