My grandmother passed away quietly in her sleep.
In her will, she left nothing to anyone—not my aunts, not my uncles, not even me, though I had cared for her during her final years.
The reading of the will erupted into chaos. Voices rose. Accusations flew. Old grudges surfaced. My cousins grabbed boxes before Grandma’s body was even cold.
I slipped out to the back porch for air. That’s when I saw her: Berta, Grandma’s old dog, sitting beside the empty rocking chair. She didn’t bark or whine. She just waited, loyal as ever.
I took Berta home. That evening, as she curled up on the rug, I noticed her collar felt heavier. Inside, stitched carefully, was a narrow leather pouch. Inside that—a folded piece of paper and a small brass key.
Grandma’s handwriting read:
“If you’re reading this, you were kind enough to take Berta. Blood doesn’t make family. Love does. The key opens the box beneath the third loose floorboard in the sewing room. You’ll know which one.”
The next morning, while the family fought over furniture, I returned. Under the floorboard sat a small metal box. The key fit perfectly. Inside: deeds, bank info, handwritten notes. Grandma hadn’t been poor. She’d planned it all.
She left everything to me—not for being family by blood, but for being the one who truly loved her.
Berta sits beside the rocking chair every evening, loyal as ever, reminding me that love outlasts greed.