When Grandma passed away, my relatives rushed to her house, desperate to find her will. I was the only one who took her old dog home, not knowing she carried more than memories of Grandma. Days later, I discovered the secret Grandma had hidden where no one else would think to look.
To bring my whole family together, you either had to throw a pile of money in front of them or wait for someone to die. Unfortunately, that day, it was both. I stood at the cemetery, watching as Grandma was lowered deep into the ground.
I held Berta’s leash tightly, and she pulled forward, as if she wanted to go after Grandma. Berta was Grandma’s dog. She’d bought her when I was little, and, as Grandma often liked to say, Berta was her best friend and almost the only one she could truly trust.
Grandma was a good person, though she was definitely a bit particular. She had earned a lot of money during her life, but she never gave a penny to her children or grandchildren. Instead, she paid for everyone’s education.
She believed that in life everyone should achieve things on their own, to rise from nothing, just like she once had. Because of that, neither my mom nor my uncle and aunt, nor their children, spoke to Grandma or even mentioned her until that day. I looked around at them, studying each face.
I knew why they were all there. Money. They hoped that at least after Grandma’s death, they’d finally get something.
But knowing her, it wasn’t going to be that easy. For the last six months of her life, Grandma had been really sick, and I’d had to move in to take care of her. Balancing that with my job as a nurse hadn’t been easy, but I managed.
I knew Grandma had been grateful that at least someone stayed with her through those difficult moments. But she hadn’t made my life easier either. I remembered one day when I’d gotten a huge bill for a car repair.
“I don’t know how I’m supposed to pay for this,” I told her. “You’re a strong girl. You’ll manage,” Grandma replied.
Of course, I hadn’t expected anything else. Even for me, she didn’t make exceptions. But she always supported me and guided me, and I was thankful for that.
After the funeral, everyone went to Grandma’s house to hear the will. Knowing my family, I had packed all my things beforehand. I knew they wouldn’t let me stay in her house.
While we waited for the lawyer to arrive, nobody said a word, only exchanged cold, hostile glances. Then Aunt Florence, probably bored, turned to me. “Meredith, remind me, what kind of doctor are you?” she asked.
“I’m a nurse,” I said. “A nurse?” Uncle Jack repeated, shocked. “You won’t make any money that way.
Tom has his own car company, and Alice owns several beauty salons,” he added, pointing to my cousins sitting with their noses proudly in the air. “I help people. That’s enough for me,” I said.
“I can’t believe I gave birth to her,” Mom muttered. I talked to her exactly three times a year: on my birthday, her birthday, and Christmas, always by phone. Suddenly, the doorbell rang.
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