Four
Bettina woke up with a twinge of memory. Not a dream. She smiled to herself.
Then she remembered. When her mother died, she’d left Bettina a box. That box was with the public trustee person and had to be opened today. This was in addition to the thing she had to collect after she scattered her mother’s ashes. Her mother liked making life complicated.
The public trustee person had told her on the phone how much he was looking forward to it. “So unusual,” he’d gushed.
Bettina wasn’t looking forward to it at all. She would drive all the way to Melbourne to collect the box from its miserable storage and then she’d open it and then she’d know (maybe) why her mother had talked so much about a special legacy and said nothing about what that special legacy was. When she was a child, Betti
