When my father died, I thought the hardest part would be accepting that he was gone. I was wrong. The hardest part came months later, when I discovered that the woman everyone in my family had quietly resented—my stepmother—was living in near poverty, barely eating, and completely alone. My father hadn’t left her a penny. To this day, I don’t know if it was a legal oversight, a rushed will, or something he simply never got around to fixing. What I do know is that she had moved into a cramped, dim apartment on the edge of town. The fridge...
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