I woke up, burnt my hands from the faucet, and slathered on French pharmaceutical hand cream. Grandpa told me about the time he took the L train to meet an old friend at a diner in the West Village. I wrote in my head while the sky drained itself in the ten minutes it took him to tell me how he earned his first million:

They went to the Square Diner. Grandpa made sure to mention his infatuation with their omelets and how he accidentally knocked over the salt, then scooped it up and tossed it behind his shoulder.

“At some point in this life… I’ve uh… become very analytical but not quite calculated-” He reflects.

I met with my father, uncle, grandmother, and two great-uncles to sort out his will two years later. I remember distinctly wearing a low-back polyester dress and black kitten heels to the estate lawyer’s office. I curled my hair nicely and ate breath mints. My mouth felt like a calcified object, and I prayed for a sip of something hot to melt the peppermint cast on the interior of my mouth—just a little to get me through the four-hour meeting. I found departure tempting when my grandma began sobbing at the prospect of pawning his wedding ring. The lawyer apologized for even suggesting it and took $80 from our fees for mentioning it. Good guy, frankly.

Grandpa’s net worth was five million, which surprised me because I had always thought it was three million. He left me with $200k, a bookshelf, and a few alpaca fur sweaters, which I later found out retailed for $300 each. I immediately put $60k away to cover tuition for the next year and my sorority fees. I told my dad to hold on to the rest, scared of what I might do if left with that kind of money.

Back at his place to collect our new belongings, I rummaged through his office drawers while everyone else was going through his bedroom upstairs. I found a few items I could keep for sentimentality since I knew nobody wanted the clutter stuffed into his desk. I took a paperweight, a couple of moleskin journals, a framed picture of my grandmother on her wedding day, and a few ink cartridges for my printer at home. I stuffed those into my purse and headed out before everyone else, but not before hugging everyone goodbye and asking my dad to hold onto the money I knew I shouldn’t keep.

 I took a five-hour commercial flight back to Brooklyn, took the same L train he took, got to my flat, and tried on the Alpaca sweaters. It was now 11 p.m. I shimmied in front of my full-length mirror and tossed each sweater onto the chair at my desk when I was done wearing it. Each plush sweater piled up at my desk and stayed there for a few nights; I think there were four or five of them.