“He never wanted a commemoration like this,” I said as I scooted over to allow my mother and sister entry into the luxurious, bronze Rolls Royce.
“Funerals are not for the dead, my son,” Aunt Ada’s words chilled me.
“Mother, tell her what Uncle’s wishes were. You were there.”
“Hush, child. None of that is of importance, now. We are to live with Aunt Ada. It has been decided.
“But Uncle Arthur said…”
“It is no importance, Arty. Be silent. Respect those around you.”
Arty sat very still. He was old enough to know when events were stacked against you. Uncle Arthur had warned them of such a happening. Arty slowly felt in his back pants pocket to see if the document that Uncle Arthur had entrusted to him was still there. It was.
Arty had told no one of its existence. Uncle Arthur had insisted upon it. “Wait three years, Arty. Then you will be old enough to find a solicitor in the city for yourself. I have it all recorded in my testament. A solicitor will believe you. But you must wait.”
Without understanding it all, Arty remained silent. Uncle Arthur knew what he was doing… even in his death.
Written for Sunday Photo Fiction: Requirements: using the photo prompt, create a story of around 200 words.