The wedding was beautiful. My cousin Rylan finally married Lacey after ten years together. Emotions were high—people were tearing up before the vows even started. But the moment that hit hardest wasn’t part of the ceremony.
Rylan walked across the dance floor in his tux, leaned down, and took my mom’s hand. She was already teary-eyed in her chair, barefoot, her black dress flowing softly around her. He gently wheeled her to the center of the floor and started dancing with her—slowly, carefully, like she was made of glass. You could feel the entire room go still.
They laughed softly, her hand resting on his chest like it had a hundred times when he was a boy.
But then, just as the music faded, she leaned in and whispered something in his ear.
Rylan froze. His eyes widened. Then he nodded once, kissed her forehead, and walked away.
At the time, I thought it was just a touching exchange. But the next morning, he skipped the family brunch and drove straight to her house. He stayed there all day. Wouldn’t say why.
Two days later, I dropped by to check in on her. That’s when I saw it.
A manila envelope on the kitchen table—with Rylan’s name written across the front.
Inside was a handwritten letter.
And the original copy of my dad’s will.