An elderly man lay on his deathbed, surrounded by his wife, three children, and a nurse. The room was quiet except for the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor and the faint rustle of curtains in the evening breeze.
Gathering his strength, the man spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. “Bill,” he began, turning to his eldest son, “you get the houses in Beverly Hills.”
His son’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, but he said nothing.
“Mary,” the man continued, looking at his daughter, “the offices in the Center Center are yours.”
Mary’s eyes widened, but she stayed silent, glancing at her siblings.
“Debra,” he said to his youngest, “the apartments above the L.A. Plaza go to you.”
Debra exchanged a confused look with her brother and sister.
Finally, turning to his wife, he said, “And to you, my love, take all the residential buildings near downtown.”
The room fell into stunned silence. Even the nurse, standing at the foot of the bed, couldn’t help but comment. “Wow,” she said, visibly impressed. “Your husband must have been an extraordinary man to leave behind so much property.”
The wife let out a deep sigh and shook her head. “Property?” she replied, her voice tinged with exasperation. “The man’s been running the same paper route for forty years!”
