My sister got the house. I got a chessboard. At first, I thought it was my father’s final insult — until I heard something strange rattling inside one of the pieces.

“Life is a chess game,” my father used to say. “You don’t win by shouting. You win by seeing three moves ahead.” I used to roll my eyes when he said that. But that day I’d give anything to hear him say it one more time. I didn’t speak when he died in the bedroom where we played every Sunday. Didn’t speak when neighbors brought warm casseroles and colder condolences. Didn’t speak when my half-sister Lara arrived — tanned, smiling, wrapped in a coat that probably cost more than the funeral.

“Gosh,” she said to my mother, “it still smells like him in here.” Of course, it did. His perfumed coat was still hanging by the door. Lara didn’t come to mourn. She came to collect. We sat side by side waiting for the last will. Finally, the lawyer unfolded the envelope.

“For my daughter Lara, I leave the house and everything within it,” he read aloud. “The property cannot be sold while its current resident remains.” Lara didn’t look at me. Just smiled. “And for my daughter Kate…” The lawyer paused. I held my breath. “I leave my chessboard and its pieces.” Lara let out a soft snort and tilted her head toward me. “A house for me, and a hobby for you. Fitting, don’t you think?” I didn’t answer. Just stood, picked up the chess set, and walked out. I could still hear her laughter behind me. Outside, I walked without a plan. The wind bit through my sleeves.