I paused, confused. Inheritance? “I’m sorry,” I said. “I think you have the wrong person. I don’t have any family.”

“No, this is correct,” the lawyer assured me. “It’s from a Mr. Greenwood.”

That name meant nothing to me as it wasn’t my parents’ last name, and I had no living relatives — none I knew of, anyway. “I don’t know any Mr. Greenwood,” I said.

“Well, he left something for you,” Mr. Stevens replied calmly. “I’d like you to come by my office on Friday to discuss the details.”

I didn’t know what to think. Who was Mr. Greenwood? Why would he leave me anything? I was 28 years old and had spent my entire life as an orphan, with no family. I grew up in the system after my parents died in a car accident when I was just three months old.

I never had any relatives, no grandparents, aunts, and uncles. My parents were orphans themselves, raised in an asylum with no family of their own. I had spent years wondering if I was the only person left in my family tree.

But now, a stranger named Mr. Greenwood was said to have left me something. I agreed.

After my parents died, I bounced around foster homes until I was about 12. No one wanted to keep me for long. I wasn’t a bad kid, just quiet. I’d seen a lot by then — foster families who only wanted the state checks, homes where the other kids were mean. I learned not to trust people.

“You’re better off keeping to yourself,” one of the older girls had told me when I was 10. “People come and go. You’ll see.”

She was right. No one stayed.

When I was a teenager, I stopped expecting anyone to love me or even stick around. I’d become tough and independent. I had to be. School was my escape, and I worked hard, getting decent grades, and dreaming of the day I could leave the system behind.

When I turned 18, I aged out of the foster care system. I didn’t get a tearful goodbye or a going-away party like some of the other kids. I just left with a small bag of clothes and whatever was in my savings account from the part-time jobs I’d done.

College wasn’t in the cards, so I got a job as a barista and later started working at a local bookstore. It wasn’t glamorous, but it paid the bills.

I didn’t need much, just enough to get by. But through it all, I never stopped wondering about my parents. What kind of people were they? Would they have loved me if they’d lived?

When Friday finally came, I couldn’t stop thinking about that phone call. Mr. Greenwood. Who was he? Why had he left something for me?

I called the lawyer’s office to confirm the appointment the next morning. “Hi, this is Ms. Daniels,” I said, my voice trembling a little. “I have a meeting today at one o’clock with Mr. Stevens.”

“Yes, Ms. Daniels, we’re expecting you,” the receptionist said. “Mr. Stevens is ready to explain everything.”

I wasn’t sure how to feel. Part of me wanted answers, but another part was terrified of what I might discover. Maybe this was some mistake. Maybe I was getting my hopes up for nothing.

I tried to distract myself, but as I sat in my small apartment that morning, my mind kept racing. I googled the name “Mr. Greenwood,” hoping for a clue. All I found were a few businesses with that name and a couple of obituaries. Nothing connected to me.

I spent hours going through old memories, trying to figure out if I’d ever heard that name. I hadn’t. I even went through a few old photos of my parents — none gave me any hints. It didn’t make sense. How could a complete stranger leave me an inheritance?

When I arrived at the lawyer’s office, I felt like I was walking into a dream. The place was fancy — mahogany wood everywhere, a big reception desk, framed diplomas on the wall. A secretary led me into a small, private office.

Mr. Stevens stood up when I entered. “Ms. Daniels, thank you for coming,” he said, extending his hand. He was older, with gray hair and round glasses. He seemed kind, but professional.

I shook his hand. “Nice to meet you,” I said, sitting down. My hands were clammy, and I tried to calm my nerves.

“So,” I began, “can you tell me who Mr. Greenwood is?”

Mr. Stevens nodded, opening a folder on his desk. “I’m going to explain everything, but I need you to stay with me. This might be difficult to hear.” He looked at me over his glasses, and my stomach dropped.

I could barely breathe. “What do you mean?”

Mr. Stevens took a deep breath. “Mr. Greenwood,” he began, “was the man responsible for the car accident that killed your parents.”

“WHAT!?” I screamed when I realized what was going on. I sat there, my heart pounding as Mr. Stevens continued.

“Mr. Greenwood was devastated by what happened,” the lawyer said, his voice calm but heavy. “He never meant for anyone to die that night. It was a terrible accident. He had been drinking, lost control of his car, and your parents were in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

I felt a lump form in my throat. The thought of someone driving drunk and taking my parents from me was almost too much to bear.

“He was sentenced to 15 years in prison for manslaughter,” Mr. Stevens continued. “But while he was there, he never stopped thinking about your family. The guilt consumed him. When he was released, he decided to dedicate the rest of his life to making amends in the only way he knew how.”

I blinked, trying to process what I was hearing. “Making amends?” I whispered.

“Yes,” Mr. Stevens replied, nodding. “He sold his house, moved into a small trailer, and started a small business. He worked long hours, saved every penny. Over time, his business grew, and he became quite successful. But he didn’t spend the money. Instead, he saved it, hoping that one day he could offer you something to help make up for the pain he caused.”

I shook my head, feeling a mix of anger and confusion. “Money can’t bring back my parents,” I muttered, more to myself than to Mr. Stevens.

“No, it can’t,” he agreed softly. “But Mr. Greenwood believed it was the least he could do. He wanted you to have financial security, something he felt your parents would have wanted for you. He didn’t have children, no other heirs. You were his only focus.”

I sat in stunned silence as the lawyer went on.

“The inheritance is five million dollars, Ms. Daniels. Every penny he earned after getting out of prison was set aside for you. He spent his life trying to make amends for that night.”

My mind swirled. Five million dollars. It felt surreal. Part of me wanted to accept it. After all, I had struggled my whole life. I didn’t have much to my name. This money could change everything for me. I could pay my debts, quit my job, and maybe even travel.

But another part of me felt sick at the thought. This money was tied to the worst moment of my life. The man who caused my parents’ death wanted me to live off his guilt? How could I accept that?

I looked up at Mr. Stevens. “I don’t think I can take it,” I said quietly.

The lawyer didn’t seem surprised. “It’s a lot to process,” he said kindly. “You don’t have to decide today.”

But I knew. I already knew.

“I can’t take the money,” I said more firmly this time. “It doesn’t feel right. I don’t want anything from him.”

Mr. Stevens nodded. “I understand.”

I thought for a moment, then added, “But I don’t want the money wasted either. Can you transfer it to a charity? Something for orphans, maybe? I think that would be the best way to use it.”

The lawyer smiled slightly as if he had been expecting this. “Of course. I can arrange that. There are several foundations that help children who grew up in situations like yours. I’ll make sure it goes to a good cause.”

I felt a small sense of relief wash over me. I still didn’t fully know how to feel about Mr. Greenwood, but at least I knew that something good could come out of all this pain.

I thought about my parents more than usual in the days after the meeting. I still didn’t have all the answers I’d been looking for, but I strangely felt closer to them. I had always wondered what kind of people they were, and now I knew they had left a mark on someone, even if it was through tragedy.

Liked this story? Consider reading this one: I was shocked when one day, I met my father again. All these years after he had abandoned Mom and me, I saw his face printed in the newspaper. I was not ready for this. Could I finally confront the man who shattered our lives?

This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.