Chapter 6: The Will Nobody Wanted Me to See
I didn't go home the next morning.
Not immediately.
Instead, I called Ms. Patel and told her about the alleged will.
She advised me not to sign anything, agree to any financial arrangement, or accept Vanessa's interpretation of a document I hadn't seen.
“Ask for a copy,” she said.
“And if the document has legal significance, we should review it before you respond.””
I agreed.
Then I called Dad.
“I want a copy of the will before I come over.””
There was a pause.
“Vanessa says it's a private family document.””
“It's a document about my mother.””
“I know.””
“Then send me a copy.””
He sighed.
“I'll ask her.””
I waited.
Five minutes later, my phone buzzed.
It was a photograph of a handwritten page.
The image was slightly blurred, but I could make out my mother's name at the bottom.
Elena Carter.
Beneath it was a signature that looked like hers.
The first paragraph stated that she wished her personal belongings and savings to be managed by Marcus Carter until I reached adulthood.
The second paragraph referred to a separate document detailing the distribution of her estate.
The third paragraph was incomplete.
The page ended abruptly after the words:
In the event of my husband's remarriage, the trustee shall—
The rest was cut off.
I stared at the screen.
“This isn't a complete will,” I said aloud.
Mrs. Alvarez looked up from the cutting table.
“What isn't?””
I showed her the photograph.
She read it carefully.
“Where did this come from?””
“Vanessa says she found it in Mom's old paperwork.””
Mrs. Alvarez frowned.
“Ask for the entire document, including every page and any attachments.””
I called Dad again.
“The photograph is incomplete.””
“That's what Vanessa gave me.””
“Where is the original?””
“She says it's in the study.””
“Then take a picture of every page.””
He hesitated.
“Nia, I don't want another fight.””
I closed my eyes.
“I'm not asking you to fight with anyone. I'm asking you to send me a complete copy of a document that concerns my mother's estate.””
“All right.””
I ended the call.
For the next hour, I tried to concentrate on the gown.
I adjusted the hem, reinforced the seams, and pressed the organza overlay.
But my thoughts kept returning to the incomplete paragraph.
In the event of my husband's remarriage, the trustee shall—
What had my mother intended to happen if Dad remarried?
Had she expected him to manage the money for me?
Had she anticipated that someone else might gain control of the account?
Or was Vanessa simply trying to frighten me into abandoning the investigation?
I didn't know.
And I refused to guess.
At noon, Dad sent another photograph.
This one showed the bottom half of the page.
The paragraph continued:
...provide a full accounting of all funds held for Nia Carter and transfer any remaining balance to an independent custodian for her benefit.
I read it twice.
Then a third time.
The document appeared to say that if Dad remarried, an independent custodian was supposed to take over management of the money.
I showed Ms. Patel the photographs.
She studied them carefully.
“This is not enough to determine the document's legal status,” she said.
“We need the complete original, information about when it was created, and whether it was properly executed. We also need to know whether a separate will or trust document exists.””
“But if it's real, what does it mean?””
“It may mean that your mother's intentions were different from what you were told. But we need to verify that before drawing conclusions.””
I nodded.
“Can we get the original?””
“We can ask your father to preserve it and arrange for it to be reviewed.””
I called Dad again.
“Please don't let Vanessa remove or alter the document.””
“I won't.””
“Can you send a picture of the remaining pages?””
He didn't answer immediately.
Then he said, “There's something else.””
I waited.
“Vanessa says your mother never signed a separate will.””
I looked at the photographs.
“Then why does this page refer to another document?””
“I don't know.””
“Dad, did you ever see this page before?””
“No.””
“Did you know Mom wanted an independent custodian if you remarried?””
“No, Nia. I swear I didn't.””
I wanted to believe him.
But I had believed him before, when he told me the money was gone.
I had believed him when he said he would speak to Vanessa about the dress.
I had believed him when he promised to help me with graduation.
Now I understood that his promises were not evidence.
I needed documents.
I needed dates.
I needed the truth.
That afternoon, Mrs. Alvarez drove me to the county courthouse, where we asked how to obtain information about any estate proceedings associated with my mother.
The clerk searched the records using my mother's full name and date of death.
After several minutes, she shook her head.
“I don't see a probate case under that name in our current index.””
“Could a will exist without a probate case?”” I asked.
“Yes. Not every estate goes through probate, and records may be held elsewhere depending on how the assets were arranged. This search isn't proof that no will exists.””
I thanked her.
Outside, I stood on the courthouse steps, trying to make sense of the new information.
Mrs. Alvarez placed a hand on my shoulder.
“One step at a time.””
I nodded.
“It's just hard not to wonder what else I've been told that isn't true.””
She looked at me with gentle seriousness.
“Then stop trying to solve everything in your head. Build a record. Let the evidence answer your questions.””
That evening, I returned to the design center for the final judging.
The exhibition hall was crowded with guests, photographers, and industry representatives. Rows of mannequins stood beneath bright lights, each displaying a different interpretation of fashion.
Some gowns were covered in crystals.
Others were constructed from recycled materials, sculpted fabric, or layers of translucent silk.
My dress stood near the center of the room.
A small card beneath it read:
*AFTER THE STORM*
Designed and constructed by Nia Carter.
I stood in front of it for a long moment.
I remembered the first night I had sketched the silhouette.
I remembered the smell of blue paint.
I remembered Vanessa's raised hand and Brianna's laughter.
Then I looked at the ivory overlay, the sculpted shoulders, and the tiny fabric flowers.
The damage had changed the design.
But it hadn't erased my work.
Danielle Price approached me from behind.
“It's beautiful under the exhibition lighting.””
I smiled.
“Thank you.””
She studied the gown.
“The repair is almost invisible from a distance, but the closer you look, the more interesting the construction becomes.””
“I wanted the new details to feel intentional.””
“They do.””
She handed me a glass of water.
“Are you ready for the presentation?””
I swallowed.
“I think so.””
“You don't need to tell us that your life has been difficult. You don't need to make the story more dramatic than it is. Just explain the design, your decisions, and what you learned.””
I nodded.
“That sounds manageable.””
She smiled.
“Good. That's all a designer can do.””
When my name was announced, I walked to the presentation area.
The lights seemed brighter than they had during the inspection.
A panel of five judges sat behind a long table. Danielle stood to one side, and Evelyn Brooks watched from the front row.
I placed my hands lightly at my sides.
“My name is Nia Carter,” I began, “and this gown is called After the Storm.””
I explained the original silhouette, the construction of the bodice, and the techniques I had used to create the pleated skirt.
Then I described the damage.
I didn't name Vanessa.
I didn't mention Brianna.
I simply explained that the original fabric had been damaged shortly before the exhibition and that I had chosen to redesign the bodice rather than abandon the garment.
One of the judges leaned forward.
“What made you decide to preserve the original structure?””
“Because the structure was still sound,” I answered.
“The damage affected the surface, not the underlying construction. I wanted to respect the work I'd already done while allowing the design to evolve.””
The judge nodded.
“And how did you approach the overlay?””
“I treated it as part of the design rather than a cover-up. The diagonal line creates movement across the bodice, and the flowers soften the transition between the satin and organza.””
Another judge asked about my mother.
I swallowed.
“She taught me how to sew. I used to watch her repair clothes at our kitchen table. She could make something beautiful out of almost nothing.””
I looked at the gown.
“I think I learned from her that a garment doesn't have to be perfect to have value. Sometimes the way you repair it becomes part of its story.””
For a moment, the room was silent.
Then the judges began writing.
When the presentation ended, the audience applauded.
I stepped away from the platform, my knees trembling.
Mrs. Alvarez was waiting near the side entrance.
She hugged me.
“You were wonderful.””
I laughed, feeling tears sting my eyes.
“I nearly forgot how to breathe.””
“But you didn't.””
We watched the remaining presentations together.
Brianna's name was never announced.
Her entry remained suspended while the committee completed its review.
Vanessa did not appear in the audience.
Dad arrived near the end of the evening, carrying a large envelope.
He approached me cautiously.
“I brought the original document.””
I stared at the envelope.
“Where did you get it?””
“It was in the study, inside a folder with your mother's name.””
He handed it to me.
The paper was old, with faint creases along the edges. Several pages were attached with a brass fastener.
I didn't open it immediately.
“Did Vanessa give you permission to take it?””
He shook his head.
“I told her I needed to make a copy for you. She said I was choosing your side over hers.””
“And what did you tell her?””
He looked at me.
“I told her I should have chosen your safety a long time ago.””
The words surprised me.
I wasn't ready to forgive him.
But for the first time, he had said something that didn't ask me to protect him from the consequences of his own choices.
I took the envelope.
“I'm going to have this reviewed by Ms. Patel.””
“I understand.””
“Don't let anyone remove anything else from Mom's files.””
“I won't.””
I turned toward the exhibition hall.
Before I could leave, Dad spoke again.
“Nia, I need you to know something about the money.””
I stopped.
He looked down at his hands.
“When Vanessa and I married, she told me your mother had left a note saying the savings could be used for household expenses if I needed help raising you.””
My heart began to pound.
“Did you see the note?””
“No.””
“Did Mom tell you that?””
“No. Vanessa said she found it with the envelope.””
I stared at him.
“And you believed her?””
He closed his eyes.
“Yes.””
I felt a familiar ache rise in my chest.
“Did you ever ask to see it?””
“No.””
I turned away.
He continued quickly.
“I'm not making excuses. I should have asked. I should have verified everything. I should have protected what your mother left for you.””
I looked at him.
“Where is the note now?””
“I don't know.””
“Did you ever read it?””
“No.””
I held the envelope more tightly.
“Then we need to find it.””
Dad nodded.
“I'll help.””
I left the exhibition hall with Mrs. Alvarez and went straight to Ms. Patel's office the following morning.
She examined the original document and photographed every page.
The signature appeared consistent with the signature on several other documents my father had provided, but she cautioned that appearance alone could not establish authenticity.
She also noticed something important.
The pages were numbered.
The first page ended with a sentence that continued onto the second. The second referred to an attached schedule. The schedule listed a bank account and a separate document described as a letter of instruction.
Ms. Patel looked up.
“This may be more significant than the photograph suggested.””
“Because of the account?””
“Because the document appears to refer to other records that should exist. We need to locate them.””
She wrote down the names of the bank, the original attorney listed on the final page, and a witness whose signature appeared beneath my mother's.
The attorney had retired.
The witness's name was unfamiliar to me.
But the law firm's address was still listed in the public directory.
Ms. Patel called the firm and asked whether it held archived records for Elena Carter.
After a brief conversation, she ended the call.
“They're going to search their archived files.””
“How long will it take?””
“They couldn't promise a timeline.””
I nodded.
Then I looked at the witness's name again.
“Who is this person?””
Ms. Patel turned the document toward me.
“Margaret Ellis.””
I had never heard the name.
But beneath it was a handwritten address.
An address in the same town where my mother had worked before she became ill.
I copied it into my notebook.
That evening, the showcase results were announced.
I received an honorable mention for construction and a special commendation for design adaptation.
It wasn't the grand prize.
But Danielle Price approached me afterward with a folder.
“Bellamy House would like to offer you a place in our summer apprenticeship program,” she said.
“The position includes a stipend and a mentorship with our eveningwear team.””
I stared at her.
“Are you serious?””
She smiled.
“Very.””
I took the folder with both hands.
Inside was an offer letter, a schedule, and information about the scholarship application.
My eyes blurred.
Mrs. Alvarez hugged me so tightly that I laughed into her shoulder.
“You earned this,” she whispered.
For the first time, I allowed myself to imagine leaving my old life behind.
A small apartment.
A design studio.
A future in which my mother's sewing machine sat beside my own.
I could almost see it.
Then my phone buzzed.
A message from an unknown number.
You should stop looking into Elena's paperwork.
I stared at the screen.
Another message appeared.
Your mother made a mistake trusting the wrong person. Don't repeat it.
My blood turned cold.
I called Ms. Patel immediately and forwarded both messages.
She advised me not to respond and to preserve the original messages for review.
Then I looked again at the address in my notebook.
Margaret Ellis.
The witness to my mother's document.
The woman who might know why the letter of instruction had disappeared.
I searched the public directory and found a telephone number.
My finger hovered over the call button.
Then I pressed it.
A woman answered after four rings.
“Hello?””
“Is this Margaret Ellis?””
“Yes.””
“My name is Nia Carter. My mother was Elena Carter.””
Silence.
Then I heard a sharp intake of breath.
“Oh, my goodness,” the woman whispered.
“I've wondered for years when you would call.””
I gripped the phone.
“You knew my mother?””
“I did.””
“Did you witness a document she signed shortly before she died?””
The woman was quiet for several seconds.
Then she said, “Yes, sweetheart. And I have been waiting for someone to ask me about it.””
I closed my eyes.
“What did my mother leave behind?””
Margaret's voice trembled.
“Not just money, Nia. Your mother left instructions about who should protect you if your father ever remarried.””
I stared at the wall.
“Who?””
Margaret took a shaky breath.
May you like
Then she said a name I had never expected to hear.
“Your grandmother.””
