The day we buried Grandma, my half-sister Victoria leaned in and whispered, “Blood matters. You were just charity.”
Grandma had taken me in at seven after my mother—her housekeeper—died. To Victoria, I was an outsider. To Grandma, I was simply hers.
At the will reading, Victoria inherited the two-million-dollar estate: the house, jewelry, investments, and antique furniture. I received a few books, photos… and Grandma’s old wool coat. Victoria smirked.
That night, grieving in my apartment, I slipped the coat on and felt something hidden in the lining. Inside a hand-stitched pocket was a sealed envelope.
It was the deed to Grandma’s lakeside cabin—transferred to me three years earlier.
Her real treasure.
Two weeks later, Victoria called in a rage: the “priceless” antique furniture was fake, worth almost nothing. Grandma had known exactly what she was doing.
Victoria got the money.
I got the cabin—the place Grandma loved most—and a note waiting for me there:
“Not because of blood—but because of heart.”
In the end, that was worth far more than two million dollars.
