I was sad to hear that Uncle Mortimer had died. The rest of the family slighted him because he was often cranky and smelled bad; they didn’t invite him to events often but he had a way of finding out. He would show up after a bender and cause Mother and the others to purse their lips with disdain. But even after I got older I enjoyed spending time with Uncle Mortimer; he told me stories of what his life had been like during the war, how he and Auntie Josephine had met and how he missed her after she’d died during childbirth, and many other wondrous things. I guess the times we shared had meant something to him as well: I was the only one summoned to the solicitor for the reading of the will. He’d left me everything, the solicitor had said on the phone, but I couldn’t imagine what he could have; Uncle Mortimer was always dirty and had to borrow cab fare. I and my wife joined hands as we entered the solicitor’s large leather-covered office. I don’t think I took a breath as he pulled out a thick sheaf of papers and began to read a list of investments, all of which Uncle Mortimer had left to me and my descendants. The solicitor finally reached the last item, Uncle Mortimer’s cottage on Danisbury Moors. My wife and I smiled at each other, having spent the last six months looking for a house that would accommodate our soon-to-be larger family. As we gathered the directions to the cottage, we gave thanks for Uncle Mortimer and headed toward our new home.