I handle the final wishes of the dead for a living. As a probate attorney in Cuyahoga County, Ohio, my weeks are measured in billable hours, contestable codicils, and the grim bureaucracy of distributing assets. I tell my clients that clarity is the greatest kindness they can leave behind. Yet, last Tuesday, standing in my driveway in Cleveland Heights with a handful of rain-soaked mail, I realized how little I understood about the true nature of a legacy. I was expecting a subpoena regarding the dissolution of my own marriage - a bitter irony given my profession. Instead, buried beneath a Valpak coupon book and a Geico flyer, I found a #10 envelope that had yellowed to the color of nicotine.
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