The room smelled of coffee, leather, and dust—like secrets clinging to old law offices.
I sat stiff in a high-backed chair. Claire, ever the performer, dabbed at fake tears during Grandma’s will reading.
“To Claire, my youngest granddaughter, $500,000 in cash.”
Claire gasped. I didn’t look at her.
“To Abigail—my oldest—I leave the farmhouse on Maple Ridge, with all its contents and responsibilities.”
No gasp. Just the weight of that word—responsibilities.
While Claire lived in spas, I stayed. I cared for Grandma. I got the mess.
Later, at the farmhouse, the air smelled like mildew and memory. It was mine now.
Cleaning out the upstairs closet, I found a hidden letter.
“Abby, some things matter more than money. This house needs hands that care. That’s why I chose you. Love, Grandma.”
I was furious. But I kept the letter.
Then one day, a sleek black car arrived. Henry, a friend of Grandma’s, offered $1 million for the farm.
Claire begged me to sell. I didn’t answer.
Days passed. I worked. I thought. Then I chose.
“I’m not selling,” I told Henry.
He smiled. “I hoped you’d say that. Now, let’s build something here.”
And we did.
We restored the farm—barns, gardens, markets. People came. So did Claire, eventually, paintbrush in hand.
We didn’t mention the money again. Something richer had taken root.
And sometimes, I’d reread Grandma’s letter. And smile.
She was right.
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