After the funeral, a glamorous young woman approached me outside the church.
She glanced toward the company vehicles and then toward the mansion visible in the distance.
“What is it really like marrying into all this money?” she asked.
I laughed.
Then I led her into Walter’s office.
The leather portfolio remained inside the same desk drawer.
I placed it in front of her.
Her smile widened as she opened it.
A few seconds later, the smile slowly disappeared.
I recognized the expression.
It was the same one I had worn on my wedding day.
That evening, I drove to the company’s oldest factory.
Through a distant window, I could see the mansion glowing on the hill.
Years earlier, I would have stared at it.
I barely noticed it now.
I walked through the factory, greeting the final employees as they collected their coats.
When everyone had left, I entered the old break room.
The tables were clean.
Several coffee cups rested upside down beside the sink.
A handwritten retirement announcement had been pinned to the notice board.
I turned off the lights and closed the door.
The small brass key moved smoothly inside the lock.
For years, I had dreamed of possessing Walter’s mansion.
Instead, he left me something far more valuable.
He taught me that wealth was not measured by how many doors a person owned.
It was measured by how many doors they opened for others.
