**THE MISSING WILL**
Grandma Rose’s lawyer called this morning. Said the will reading is scheduled for next week. I felt a knot tighten in my stomach. Everyone expects me, the eldest grandchild, to inherit the antique shop. But a shop needs capital. Capital I don’t have.
Last night, I was helping Mom clear out Rose’s attic. Cobwebs, moth-eaten dresses, dusty photographs… and then I saw it: a small, locked metal box tucked behind a stack of old photo albums.
I picked the lock with a hairpin. Inside, nestled amongst yellowed letters, was another will. Not the official one. This one… was dated *after* the official one. And it left everything to…
⬇️
Inside, nestled amongst yellowed letters, was another will. Not the official one. This one… was dated *after* the official one. And it left everything to… my Uncle Arthur, the black sheep of the family, a man who hadn’t spoken to Grandma Rose in fifteen years after a bitter feud over a gambling debt.
A cold dread washed over me. Arthur, with his penchant for fast cars and faster women, would likely sell the shop, piece by piece, to fuel his extravagant lifestyle. The shop, a treasure trove of history and memories, would be lost forever. The knot in my stomach tightened into a suffocating fist.
I showed the will to my mother, her face a mask of shocked disbelief. “This… this changes everything,” she whispered, her voice trembling. The news spread like wildfire through the family. My aunt Clara, always jealous of Grandma Rose’s affection for me, practically vibrated with glee. Uncle Arthur, contacted by phone, erupted in a boisterous laugh, his voice laced with triumphant cruelty. “Looks like the prodigal son is coming home!” he boomed.
The following week, the official will reading was a tense affair. Lawyer Henderson, a stern woman with eyes like flint, announced Grandma Rose’s official will, leaving the shop to me. A collective sigh of relief swept through the room, broken only by Clara’s sharp intake of breath. Then, I produced the second will. The room exploded.
Arthur, arriving late and smelling strongly of expensive cologne, swaggered in, a smug grin plastered on his face. He produced a lawyer of his own, a sleek, young man who immediately challenged the authenticity of the second will. He argued that the handwriting was inconsistent, the date questionable. He suggested foul play, hinting darkly at a possibility of forgery. The atmosphere thickened with suspicion and accusation.
My mother, pale and shaky, swore she’d seen Grandma Rose writing in that very notebook just months before her death. But the young lawyer dismissed her testimony as emotional bias. The case seemed to be heading for a messy, protracted legal battle.
Then, a surprise witness emerged: Mrs. Gable, Grandma Rose’s frail, longtime neighbour. She testified to seeing Arthur visit Grandma Rose regularly in the last months of her life, carrying a small metal box. She remembered noticing an unusually large sum of money deposited into Arthur’s account around the same time. The young lawyer faltered.
The unexpected twist came from the analysis of the ink on both wills. The forensic expert revealed that the ink on the second will, despite appearing aged, was a modern formulation. The ‘aged’ effect was a clever forgery. Arthur’s smug facade crumbled.
The police were called. The second will, deemed a fabrication, was inadmissible. Arthur, exposed as a fraud, was arrested. The shop, and everything in it, remained mine. But the experience left a bitter taste. The family, forever fractured by suspicion and greed, would never be the same. The victory felt hollow, tainted by the knowledge of the depths of human avarice I had witnessed. As I stood amidst the dusty relics of Grandma Rose’s life, I felt not triumph, but a profound and lingering sadness. The antique shop was mine, but the price of its inheritance was far greater than I could have ever imagined.