“Yes, Your Honor.” Alex’s lawyer stood up and took the grandfather’s letter from his folder. “A letter from the testator, addressed to Alex Miller, in which he explains in detail the history of the automobile and his reasons for bequeathing it specifically to him.”
The judge took the letter and read it. She read for a long time, several pages. Victor tapped his fingers nervously on the table. Finally, the judge looked up.
“Has the authenticity of this letter been verified?”
“Yes, Your Honor. Here is the report from the handwriting expert.” The lawyer handed her the document.
The judge reviewed the report. The letter was deemed authentic. Written by Peter Miller. She looked at Victor’s lawyer.
“Do you have a response?”
Victor’s lawyer stood up.
“Your Honor, the existence of a letter does not change the fact that the automobile is not mentioned in the will. A letter is private correspondence and has no legal standing.”
“The letter serves as evidence of the testator’s intent,” Alex’s lawyer countered. “It clearly states that the automobile was intended for Alex Miller but was not included in the will because it was located in the garage, which was included in the will.”
The judge raised her hand, stopping the argument.
“That’s enough. I will review all the case materials and make a decision. The hearing is adjourned for two weeks.”
She banged her gavel. The hearing was over.
Alex stood up, feeling empty. Uncertain. Two more weeks of waiting.
Victor approached him in the hallway.
“Alex, this is my last offer. Let’s make a deal. Sixty grand for you, forty for me. As brothers.”
“No deal.”
“You’re stubborn. You were always a loser, and you still are. Even when you get lucky, you manage to screw it up.”
“Get lost, Victor.”
Alex turned and walked away. Victor shouted after him:
“You’ll regret this. I’m not giving up.”
Alex didn’t look back. He left the courthouse and sat on a bench. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He hadn’t smoked in five years, but he desperately wanted one now. He lit one, took a drag, and coughed.
His lawyer sat down next to him.
“Don’t worry. It’s going well. The letter is a strong piece of evidence. The judge will take it into account. And if she doesn’t, we’ll appeal. But I think the decision will be in your favor.”
Alex nodded, not entirely convinced. Two weeks. Two more weeks of not knowing.
He went back to work, trying to distract himself. Cars, customers, routine. But his thoughts kept returning to the court, to Victor, to the car. What if he lost? What if the judge decided Victor was right? Would he have to sell the car? Give the money to his brother?
No. That wasn’t going to happen. He wouldn’t let it.
That evening, Alex drove to the garage. He opened it, went inside, and sat in the car. He put his hands on the steering wheel and closed his eyes.
“Grandpa,” he whispered, “if you can hear me, help me. I don’t know what to do. Victor wants to take the car. And I… I can’t give it up. It’s all I have left of you.”
Silence. Only the sound of the wind outside the garage walls. Alex opened his eyes. Of course, his grandpa wouldn’t answer. He was gone. There was only his memory, the car, the letter. But maybe that was enough?
He started the engine. He let it warm up, put it in gear, and slowly drove out of the garage. He drove through the city at night. Slowly, unhurriedly. The car moved smoothly, confidently. People on the street turned to look, pointing. A classic car on the road was a rare sight.
Alex turned the wheel, shifted gears, listened to the purr of the engine, and gradually calmed down. The car was like medicine, like therapy. His grandpa had driven it for decades. He had driven it and been happy. Maybe he could be happy too.
Alex returned to the garage an hour later. He parked the car and covered it with the tarp. He closed the garage. He walked home, thinking. Thinking about what would happen after the court case. If he won, he would start a new life. He would open his own auto shop, restore old cars. That was what he loved, what he was good at. If he lost… well, he would find another way. He wouldn’t give up. He wouldn’t let himself down. His grandpa believed in him, and he wouldn’t disappoint him.
The two weeks crawled by. Alex went to work in a daze, mechanically performing his tasks. Greg asked him a few times if everything was okay, but Alex brushed it off. Personal problems, he said, they’ll be resolved soon.
In the evenings, he went to the garage and spent time with the car. He polished the body, checked all the systems, or just sat behind the wheel, thinking. Sometimes he would take it for a drive through the city at night—it calmed him, helped him gather his thoughts.
He continued to chat with people on the classic car forum, sharing his experiences and asking for advice. A few people sent him private messages with offers to buy the Bel Air, with some offering as much as one hundred thousand dollars. But Alex didn’t even consider them. The car was not for sale. Ever.
On Wednesday, the day before the final hearing, his lawyer called.
“Alex, there’s an update. The plaintiff has submitted additional materials.”
“What kind of materials?”
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