My grandmother was a mastermind. She was wealthy, and our relatives, especially my uncle and aunt, eyed her fortune. They didn’t even hide that they were waiting for her house. But Grandma had a plan.
After she passed, we gathered at her lawyer’s office. Eight of us, seven envelopes, and seven small boxes. The lawyer smirked, “Everyone, open your envelopes.” My uncle’s face turned pale when he saw what was inside: a hearing aid and a note saying,
“I may have been old, but I wasn’t deaf. I heard every word.”
Turns out, she’d been listening to all the whispers, all the greedy comments. And then, the lawyer handed me a deed. Grandma’s letter said, “You treated me with love and respect. This home is yours.”
My uncle was stunned, guilt written all over his face. Grandma made sure her inheritance went where it belonged, teaching us that family is about love, not money. Even in the end, she had the last word.
