TravelingDreamer
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Chapter 12: Her Last Will, My First Steps
🕑 Added 2024-05-01 19:05:52 +0000 UTCThe silence in the courtroom shattered the moment my father-in-law saw me. His face, already flushed with anger, darkened further when his eyes landed on me. He surged to his feet, his chair screeching against the polished floor.
“You gold-digging bastard!” he spat, jabbing a finger at me. “You robbed us! Stole what was rightfully ours—Sophie’s money, our money!” His voice boomed through the courtroom. Contempt twisted his features. “And you killed her!”
A murmur spread through the spectators, his accusation hanging like a guillotine ready to fall.
I stood still, jaw clenched, refusing to look away. Nothing I said would change his mind. It never had before.
His lip curled in disgust. “White trash,” he sneered, shaking his head. “An orphan nobody wanted then, and nobody wants now.”
The words shouldn’t have hurt. They were old wounds, after all. But they still did. The courtroom faded away for a second, swallowed by the past I’d tried to leave behind. I exhaled slowly, shoulders squared, bracing for whatever came next.
Their lawyer argued that the trust fund, a key part of my mother-in-law’s family legacy, should remain within the family and be transferred to her. He also insisted that my wife’s jewelry—priceless heirlooms passed down for generations—rightfully belonged to them.
My lawyer countered with my wife’s will and, unexpectedly, a letter she wrote after one of their visits. I didn’t even know it existed.
“Can I see it, please?” I said, my voice tight.
To Whom It May Concern,
I write this with a heavy heart, but there are truths that must be acknowledged—both for the record and for my own peace of mind.
My parents were never the loving, supportive figures they should have been. I never felt warmth from them, only expectation. My achievements were theirs to claim—proof of their supposed superiority. “Of course, she excels; that’s thanks to my genes and investment.” Or, “No surprise she draws well—that’s my talent at work. Though she’ll never match me.” Yet, every failure, every misstep, was mine alone. A personal disappointment. A mistake they regretted bringing into the world.
They controlled every aspect of my life for their benefit. Friendships were dictated by what they could gain. I was not allowed to associate with certain children because “their parents have nothing to offer.” But I was expected to build relationships with those whose families had influence—a father with a medical equipment company, a mother chairing a charity committee they wished to impress. I was never a daughter to them, just an asset, an extension of their ambitions.
When I was diagnosed with cancer, I told them—perhaps foolishly hoping for some sign of care. None came. My father’s first response was, “Who is the beneficiary of your life insurance?” My mother’s was, “Make sure you pass on your grandmothers’ jewelry to me before you die.” When I chose to stop chemotherapy, my father simply said, “Good. The treatment is a waste of money.”
In my final months, they visited regularly—not to check on me, not to offer comfort, but to demand that I change the beneficiary of my life insurance to my father, give the jewelry to my mother, and leave them the trust fund in my will. When I refused, as always, they called me a mistake and the greatest disappointment of their lives.
I do not write this for sympathy, only for clarity. Under no circumstances do I want my parents to inherit anything from me. I know them well enough to be certain they will challenge my will, seeking to take whatever they can. I state, in no uncertain terms, that they are to receive nothing. Money is the only thing that has ever mattered to them, and it is the one thing they will not get from me.
Everything I have, I leave to my husband, John Rue. From the moment we met, he brought warmth, laughter, and love into my life. He was my home, my sense of belonging. My only regret is that I cannot give him more in return for all that he has given me.
Thank you for respecting my final wishes.
With deepest gratitude,
Sophia Angelina Rue
Her handwriting was so weak and shaky—written in her final days. Seeing it was an emotional blow—a whisper from the grave, an echo of her last moments that crushed me under its weight. It had been eleven months, two weeks, and four days since her death, and my recent experiences had jolted me out of grief. I thought I was getting better. I wasn’t. Not even close. This letter unleashed a flood of pain I thought I had overcome, drowning me all over again.
The room closed in on me, the walls pressed inward. I sat there, numb, my hands shaking as I gripped the letter. Each word was a dagger cutting through the fragile scab of my healing. Swallowing did nothing. The lump in my throat only grew, a boulder lodged in my windpipe.
The judge’s voice warped, distant, like a ripple breaking the surface of a dark lake. Sound warped, words slipped past me, meaningless. Grief coiled around my ribs, cold and unrelenting, tightening with every breath. For a moment, the courtroom faded, replaced by the hospital room—her frail hand in mine, the light in her eyes dimming with every passing second, until it went out. An invisible fist constricted around my heart, and I rubbed my chest. The place had healed, but I suspected it might grow sore again.
My mind was a whirlwind of memories, each a shard of glass, tearing old wounds open. I saw her face, pale and frail, her eyes pleading with me to keep my promise. Her weak, shaky handwriting danced before my eyes, a testament to her suffering, and a reminder of the love she had for me.
My composure unraveled, threads pulling loose, leaving me exposed. My breathing became shallow, my chest tightening as if bound by iron bands. I could feel the hot sting of tears welling up, but they refused to fall, trapped behind a dam of grief and regret.
My body betrayed me, slumping forward. My shoulders hunched, and my hands shook uncontrollably. I bit my tongue, trying to stop the sobs that threatened to break free. Each breath was a struggle, each heartbeat a painful reminder. As the judge’s words continued to echo around me, I feared I would never truly escape from this grief, that her suffering would forever stay etched into the very core of my soul.
The gavel struck, the finality of the sound echoed through the courtroom. “The court rules in favor of the defendant,” the judge declared.
My lawyer exhaled sharply, tension draining from his shoulders. “It’s over,” he murmured, leaning toward me. “They don’t have a case. The judge even advised against an appeal.”
I nodded, but the words barely sank in. Over? The weight I had carried for months should have lifted, yet my chest felt hollow. The relief I had expected was nowhere to be found.
Across the courtroom, my father-in-law’s face darkened, his lips twisted in fury. My mother-in-law looked as if she had swallowed glass. They had lost. They knew it.
And yet, the victory felt empty.
After the hearing, I drove to the cemetery, barely registering the trip. My feet carried me forward on instinct alone. Gravel crunched under my boots, loud in the quiet. I lowered myself beside Sophie’s headstone, fingers tracing the engraved letters of her name. The air smelled of damp soil and fading flowers, a scent that had become familiar.
I didn’t speak. Just sat there, staring at the grass—at nothing. At everything. Spent time with her. Head resting against the headstone.
I never thought much about life after death. But if it existed, I hoped she was somewhere beautiful, full of warmth and light, surrounded by the love she deserved.
The next day, I got angry. Not just angry—pissed. Rage burned through me, twisting in my gut like a live wire. My hands itched to do something—punch, break, destroy—anything to let it out. A metallic taste coated my tongue, and my pulse hammered in my ears, each beat another chink in my control.
How could they? How could they see her as nothing more than a possession when she was young and a payday when she was dying? The audacity, the sheer heartlessness, made my blood boil.
Sophie was amazing—full of life and optimism. She loved people, truly listened, and never just waited for her turn to talk. It always amazed me how she remembered every patient’s and parents’ names. She cried for the sick and celebrated each child who recovered. Her sense of humor was amazing— wicked and sharp. And she fought to the very end. Yet these monsters, these so-called parents, had the gall to see her as nothing more than an asset, a tool for their gain.
My fists clenched, knuckles going white, veins standing out like cables. My teeth ground together, jaw aching from the force. Vivid, violent images flashed through my mind—I wanted to tear them apart, squeeze their heads until they popped, and watch their smug, greedy faces twist in fear and pain. Wanted to burn their house to the ground, let the flames swallow everything they cared about.
It wouldn’t bring her back or erase what they did. But God, I wanted to hurt them so badly.
Anger consumed me, a firestorm demanding release. I paced the room, unable to sit still, my body trembling with the intensity of my emotions. I wanted to kick, smash things, and unleash my fury on the world.
It took me a few days to cool down and get my head straight. Though still simmering beneath the surface, the rage had settled into cold, hard embers. Although angry, I maintained my self-control. Instead, I channeled that anger into purpose, into a steely resolve to honor her memory and ensure those who wronged her paid for their cruelty. I would punish them, I vowed.
I put my house on the market and met with the trust fund lawyer. Instead of monthly installments, I found out I could receive all the money at once. Without hesitation, I signed the papers right then and there.
Letting go of our shared belongings was a heart-wrenching process. I kept my clothes, personal items, photos, and souvenirs from our life together. I donated the rest in her memory; she always loved helping people. Each time I felt myself wavering, wanting to hold on to things and not let go, I repeated aloud the promise I made to her—to live in the present.
While I waited for my house to sell, I flew all over the US, Canada, and South America to visit the Gates.
I had a big surprise in Georgia—the Gate was on an army base.
Yeah, not going there.
Illinois—another army base. Both Gates in Texas? Same.
Frowning, I tapped my pen against the notebook. Georgia, Illinois, Texas… all military-controlled. One? Might be a coincidence. Two? Bad luck. But four? No way it was random.
My fingers tightened around the edge of the table. The US knew about the Gates. Hell, they’d probably known for years. And if they were locking down access, that meant one thing—if they found out about me, I wouldn’t be a Traveler. I’d be a lab rat.
I went through the rest of the US locations. Eight were on army bases, two were in Native American reserves, and only one—way up in Alaska—was accessible.
Travelers Gate #468217241
Destination: Lumis
Status: Integrated
Mana level: 32
Threat level: Moderate
A magical world. Except for the higher threat level, it sounded good, but I wanted Shimoor. I wanted boooriiing.
Both Gates in Canada were accessible, but the first one was only accessible by floatplane. It also led to Lumis, and the number was consecutive.
Curious.
Level up
+1 to all Traits, +5 free points, +1 ability point
Class: Gate Traveler Level 2
Free points: 5
Ability points: 3
Gates to next level (0/5)
Yes!
I added the stat points to Constitution. It was my lowest stat, and I wanted to be sturdier. The next Gate in Canada also led to Lumis.
I flew to South America. Three of the ten Gates marked on the map were inaccessible: one in an area controlled by a drug cartel, one in a big industrial park with people around day and night, and one on private property.
Another Gate lay broken—a boulder and a heap of gravel blocked the way. When I approached, I got a strong sense of danger. It was almost like a repelling force. I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that if I tried to cross, I’d be torn to shreds.
The other six were accessible, leading to two different places—both sounded technological, with no mana levels, and technology rated Medium and Medium-low. But the other side of the Gate felt wrong. The moment I crossed, I got a sensation like I didn’t belong, like my body rejected the very air. That was enough to make me jump back to Earth immediately.
After four Gates:
Level up
+1 to all Traits, +5 free points, +1 ability point
Class: Gate Traveler Level 3
Free points: 5
Ability points: 4
Gates to next level (0/8)
To better cope with shocks, I added the free stats to strength—I was tired of hyperventilating.
Someone made an offer on my house—less than its market value. I stared at the number for a while, fingers hovering over the email. A year ago, I would’ve fought for more and argued over every dollar. Now? I didn’t care. The only thing I could think of was getting off this cursed planet and going somewhere else.
I picked up the phone. "Accept it," I told the realtor.
Selling the house was another step forward, another tie severed. But as I hung up, I had a nagging thought—I wasn’t just leaving the bad behind. I was letting go of the good, too.
I opted not to travel to the other far-off Gates and, instead, to limit my visits to those in Europe. I just wanted to get all the money, buy everything else I might need, “farm” some more skill points, and leave. Still feeling down after the court hearing, I was tired of this place and wanted to leave it behind as soon as possible.
After an online search, I found some more upcoming one-day workshops and made a list:
• Pottery Wheel Throwing Class
• Terrarium Workshop
• Ikebana Class
• Craft Cocktail Making Class
• Bonsai Tree Class
• DIY Perfume Class
• French Croissant Baking Class
• Yoga Class
• Salsa: Beginners Class
• Graffiti Lesson
After attending all the workshops and classes, I gained an additional ten ability points. I allocated one for Guitar Playing and saved the rest.
While considering what else to bring, I delved into more World Information and Archive entries. Although none matched the humor of the first, reading outsider perspectives about the world I knew remained intriguing. One Traveler raved about boxer briefs and bought 50 to take with him; it made me laugh, but I bought 100. I also picked up extra clothing, footwear, and armored leather biker gear for protection. By touring pawn shops within a 100-mile radius, I accumulated more jewelry.
I searched for a mechanical solution to bring music with me, but unfortunately couldn’t find one. There were mechanical turntables that could play vinyl records, but the ones that still worked were very popular with collectors, and I couldn’t find one for sale. Instead, I went to music stores and bought every available sheet music songbook for the guitar. In addition, I visited many bookstores to load up on reading material and knowledge books on every subject: math, engineering, medicine, chemistry, and much more. Eventually, I would build my new home somewhere and might need this knowledge.
Finally, my house sold. I paid off the mortgage and collected the rest of the money. The cars went next, and with that, I started my final shopping spree. Storing food as-is in my Storage didn’t sit right with me. After testing it with a cup of coffee—and finding it still piping hot after two months—I knew things would stay fresh indefinitely. But somehow, it still felt wrong.
After buying 50 commercial chest coolers, I filled them with ice and started visiting stores. First, fifteen different butchers—cleaned them out. Next, fish shops–the same. Now, fresh eggs—I might have created a shortage.
I cleaned out the delis, then moved on to fruits and vegetables. That’s when the thought struck me—I had no idea what would be available in fantasy land, and I wasn’t about to spend the rest of my life without tomatoes, coffee, or chocolate. I stopped by every nursery in the area and grabbed every seed variety they had—who knew what I’d miss most?
Then came the absolute essentials: coffee and tea—and, obviously, more coffee. Two hundred pounds later, I figured I was set. Maybe it was excessive, but I had no intention of finding myself coffeeless.
My shopping list included dairy products, various spices, salt, rice, large quantities of pasta, an assortment of candies, cooking and lamp oil, and copious amounts of white and brown sugar. I visited every bakery I could find and bought baked goods and bread, bread, bread.
Next, alcohol. I stocked up on whiskey, bourbon, and wine barrels—they’d look less suspicious. Then I cleared out three liquor stores of beer and spirits. I wasn’t much of a drinker, but I knew the value of a good social lubricant. Alcohol was an excellent icebreaker.
Next was water. Sure, I had the Purify spell, but I preferred the convenience of bottled water. Just in case, I also bought ten of the largest rainwater tanks I could find, each with a tap, and filled them to the brim.
All my coolers were packed, and I had giant boxes of everything else. Naturally, I stocked up on toilet paper (I don’t like leaves), along with shampoo, soap, shaving cream, razors, and detergent. Sure, I had the Clean spell, but better safe than sorry.
My storage looked full. I didn’t believe I could fill 512 cubic meters of space, but I managed big time. I spent another ability point to house the rest of my money—no point in leaving it behind. Now, I had 1,728 cubic meters.
Challenge accepted.
My plan was to drive between the Gates in Europe, making stops at supermarkets to stock up and visit pawn shops and gaming stores for jewelry and copper coins.
I felt ready. Just one last thing to do …
