The Donor's Legacy

Sheila waited patiently at the gate, as the guards checked the enigmatic invitation she received in the post a week prior. 

Dear Sheila Byrne,

As a beneficiary, you are cordially invited to attend Reading of the Will and 

the Division of Assets of the late Fadil York’s estate, next Thursday, the 13th 

of March, at 9.00 am.

Details pertaining to the bequest and execution of Mr York’s Last Will and 

Testament will be provided on site. 

Yours sincerely, 

Stephen Nagler

(Legal Executor) 

She fidgeted nervously, ripping the cuticles on her left hand with the thumb and index finger of her right. Locks of her auburn hair, blown carelessly by the autumn wind, were caught in her mouth, and she absent-mindedly chewed on the split ends. She felt awkwardly out of place, uncomfortable and itchy in her most formal attire, but incredibly curious. 

The reason for her presence was still unclear. 

To her knowledge, she had zero connection to Fadil York, and a detailed Google search had yielded little information about the gentleman; British-born, Muslim-raised, but spent much of his adult life agnostic. Built a name for himself as a philanthropist, creating scholarship funds and various not-for-profit organisations. Died tragically in a car accident at the age of 57. She gleaned no kind of connection between herself and this stranger, so being named a beneficiary was baffling. 

A guard approached stiffly and she was ushered hastily inside the property. The wrought iron fence stood tall, casting ominous shadows on the pavement and making Sheila feel as if she were being imprisoned and could not leave of her own volition. 

Immediately, she was rendered speechless by the sight of the Victorian mansion which was encircled by this metal barrier. An exquisite gothic revival property, with towers and turrets, steep arches and protruding gables on the roof,  large bay windows with intricate stained glass motifs overlooking all parts of the grounds. From a distance the structure was testament to the architectural glory of the past, but as she approached she realised what an eye-sore the edifice was - the colours and the ornate decorative woodwork clashing harshly with the demure minimalism of the quiet neighbourhood. An artistic expression of a confused and searching individual. 

When she reached the front porch, she was greeted silently and directed into the library, where a number of people already sat, waiting. 

As she sat in a plush velvet-coated side chair Sheila noted two things. Firstly, the interior of the house was as grotesquely furnished as the exterior - with a rainbow of colour and texture in this room alone sufficient to overwhelm the senses. Secondly, that she did not recognise a single person in attendance, which was disappointing. She was hoping that a mutual connection would offer understanding as to why she was here. 

As she surveyed the room, she made eye contact with a middle-aged hijabi woman sitting to her left, and smiled shyly. 

“Hello, dear” she uttered with a broad and inviting smile, which relieved some of Sheila’s anxiety. “I’m Doctor Nazia Abbas”

The stranger extended her hand and Sheila willingly accepted it, shaking it gently and noticing the warmth and kindness the woman exuded.

“N-nice to meet you. I’m Sh-Sh-Sheila.” She paused, unsure whether or not to ask this stranger the question that was rattling around inside her head. 

She decided to take the risk. 

“D-d-do you- Do you know wh-wh-why we are here?” she stuttered, her social awkwardness clear in her timid stutter. 

“It’s exciting and mysterious isn’t it?” declared the older woman with a smile, “being named a beneficiary to a man you’ve never met.”

With the knowledge that this calm and confident woman was equally perplexed as to why she was named in the Will of Fadil York, Sheila breathed a sigh of relief. 

Doctor Abbas provided Sheila a brief biography of the other attendees. Clearly she had been inquisitive and chose to interact with every person who entered the room - Sheila had been the last of ten to arrive. The older man in the corner was a high school maths teacher, the young Asian man in the front row was a taxi driver, the blonde lady a mother of three, the young teen was a foster child. 

Even now, Sheila could determine no pattern, no rhyme or reason, no connection between the individuals or to the mysterious dead man whose estate was about to be divided. 

She was impatient to learn, and felt a wave of relief wash over her as an elderly gentleman in a suit approached the lectern at the front of the room. She could practically see the silence fall over the room as each of the invited guests held their breath, waiting for proceedings to start. 

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentleman,” a nasally sound exploded violently from the man’s voice box. 

It was quite abrasive and unpleasant to listen to, and Sheila hoped that he would not be talking long. 

“We are gathered here today, to execute the Last Will and Testament of Mr Fadil York.”

Sheila’s legs were jittering as she sat in her chair, frustrated by the slow pace with which Mr Nagler was proceeding. 

Over the next torturous half an hour, she learnt the life story of her mysterious benefactor - where he grew up, his level of education, his business enterprises, charitable organisations and personal acts of sacrifice. Finally, the lawyer approached the topic of the beneficiaries. 

“Mr York he was an only child, whose parents died when he was very young. He never married and had no family to which he could leave his amassed fortune and assets.”

Sheila was blown away by the catalogue of properties, vehicles, companies and value of the man who bequeathed her something. Having spent all of her teens and twenties working various temp jobs in data entry and office environments, that kind of money was unfathomable. 

“It is for this reason, that you ten are here,” continued Nagler. “You are ten individuals who directly benefited, in some way, from Mr York’s selfless generosity.”

Many people in the room gasped, aware of ways in which they had received acts of random kindness, life-altering charity or life-saving intervention, but Sheila was still confused. There was some kind of mistake. She didn’t receive anything from Mr York.  

“Doctor Abbas here, had her tertiary education funded by scholarships that Mr York set up. Mr Wu’s taxi was destroyed in a hit and run and he was able to purchase a new, economically viable vehicle courtesy of an anonymous donation from Mr York. Mr Leroy, your new kidney was donated by Mr York, and Mrs Davis, your youngest child is still alive because of blood transfusions and bone marrow transplants taken from Mr York before he died. Ms Byrne’s mother was desperate for a child, and was artificially inseminated with sperm donated by Mr York in his youth.”

The lawyer continued to explain the many silent but meaningful ways that Fadil York had contributed to the lives of those gathered, but she was unable to comprehend what was being said. Her mind was fixated on the newest piece of information she had gleaned.

Fadil York was her biological father. 

Her mother had died several years ago, and had never been able to tell her about her father - always claiming he was a drunken one-night stand. She had harshly critiqued her mother’s life choices, and as a result had no desire to ever procreate, especially not carelessly. 

But, the truth was that her mother had been careful. She had made the conscious decision to have a baby, without having a relationship. She had investigated sperm donors and selected genetic traits and characteristics she had wanted for her child. 

Never, had Sheila felt so simultaneously confused, betrayed and loved. 

“Mr York was invested in your well-being from the moment he became invisibly involved in your lives, and kept tabs on you. When he drafted his Last Will and Testament, he decided to split his estate equally amongst those of you who were willing to attend a stranger’s will reading, and could carry out his final request.”

The interest of the room peaked - they were going to receive millions, but there were clearly terms and conditions; strings attached; a catch. 

“Mr York, wanted to leave a legacy, a kindness chain-letter, so to speak.” 

Immediately, Sheila felt her stomach drop and her heart began to flutter. She knew that this ‘final request’ would not be easy and would push her beyond her comfort zone. 

“The kindness that Mr York has passed on to you and your families, in some way, he would like you to forward on to others, to create a chain of generosity and kindness.”

Chain of generosity and kindness, thought Sheila, I can do that. I donate to the RSPCA and Oxfam.

“Inside these envelopes are handwritten requests from Mr York” started Mr Nagler and Sheila’s pulse quickened - she could not choose how to cultivate the chain, she had to follow instructions. 

An assistant was moving through the room, dispersing the envelopes which determined their fates. Sheila was sweating, waiting to see what her ‘task’ was to be. 

“He has suggested a way in which you could carry on his legacy in a way similar to how you were benefited.”  

This makes things more difficult, I don’t have sperm to donate. Sheila smiled at her little joke, wondering how she could contribute something of equal value to the world. 

“If you choose not to do this, then you will forfeit your claim to the estate.”

The lawyer paused for a moment, surveying the crowd and trying to ascertain how much they understood. 

“Any questions?” 

Clamour broke out across the room, everyone trying to speak at once. Outrage, contempt, thanks, joy, excitement. Never, had Sheila experienced such a mixed response to a single event - but given the diversity of the crowd, this is understandable. 

She gently ran her fingers around the edge of the envelope, taking three deep and meditative breathes before carefully unsticking the seal. 

Time stood still as she read the card, and thought about the enormity of what was being asked. 

A feeling of dread trickled down Sheila’s spine. She did not know what she would do. 

Be a surrogate for your friend who cannot get pregnant due to her polycystic ovary syndrome. 

It is easy to be generous with things like money and possessions. It is much harder to be generous with your own body.