The Day the Cars Came
A week later, the rumble came—deep engines in unison. I stepped onto the porch, Clara in my arms, and froze.
Eleven black Rolls-Royces lined the street, chrome gleaming in the Illinois sun. Out stepped men in tailored suits.
“Are you Clara’s guardian?” one asked.
I nodded. He handed me an envelope, heavy with documents. Clara’s parents—brilliant young entrepreneurs—had perished in a tragic fire. She was their only child, their heir to everything: estates, investments, wealth beyond anything I could imagine.
I was stunned. They offered a mansion, staff, endless luxury. For a moment, I pictured it: chandeliers, grand pianos, velvet nurseries.
Then Clara whimpered softly against my chest, searching for closeness.
“No,” I said. “Sell it all.”
