**THE MISSING WILL**
Grandma Rose’s house smelled of lavender and lies. Today was the reading of the will. Aunt Carol glared daggers at me as the lawyer began.
“…everything to be divided equally between her grandchildren.” I felt a surge of relief. College was finally within reach.
Then Carol stood, her face contorted. “He’s lying! There was another will. I saw it! She told me I was her favorite, and I’d get everything!” She lunged at the lawyer, screaming about hidden documents and family betrayal. Dad grabbed her arm, his face ashen. ⬇️
Dad’s grip on Carol tightened, his knuckles white as bone. “Carol, calm down! This is ridiculous.” His voice cracked, betraying his own unease. The lawyer, a stoic man named Mr. Finch, remained impassive, his gaze shifting between the warring family members. The lavender scent of Grandma Rose’s house now felt thick and suffocating, mirroring the tension in the room.
My relief evaporated, replaced by a chilling unease. Carol’s outburst, while dramatic, held a terrifying kernel of truth. Grandma Rose, despite her sweet exterior, was a master manipulator, capable of both lavish affection and cold-blooded deception. The idea of a second will, hidden and favoring Carol, fueled a bitter resentment I hadn’t known I possessed. Had Grandma Rose played us all along?
Mr. Finch cleared his throat, a small sound in the echoing silence. “While I can confirm the existence of only this will, I can’t dismiss Ms. Carol’s claim outright. A thorough search of the property is necessary.”
The search yielded nothing. Days bled into weeks, filled with strained silences, simmering accusations, and the gnawing suspicion that Carol might be right. Then, during a particularly heated argument, Carol, fuelled by gin and grief, blurted out a shocking confession. It wasn’t about a second will. She’d forged a letter, a supposed testament from Grandma Rose, claiming she’d left her everything. She needed the money – desperately – to save her failing business. The guilt etched on her face was palpable.
The revelation was both a relief and a crushing disappointment. It wasn’t a hidden inheritance that caused the rift, but a desperate lie born of desperation and misplaced loyalty. My anger faded, replaced by a complex mix of pity and understanding.
But then, a peculiar thing happened. While cleaning out Grandma Rose’s attic – a dusty, cobweb-laden space previously deemed off-limits – my dad discovered a small, iron box hidden behind a loose floorboard. Inside, nestled amongst yellowed photographs and dried lavender buds, was not a will, but a series of letters – Grandma Rose’s correspondence with a mysterious “R.M.” The letters spoke of a secret love affair, a hidden life Grandma Rose had meticulously kept from everyone. The last letter mentioned a significant sum of money held in a Swiss bank account, left to… R.M.
The identity of R.M. remained a mystery. Was it a long-lost lover? A secret child? The letters provided no further clues. The will remained unchanged, dividing the meager inheritance equally. But the discovery of the secret life and hidden fortune, left ambiguously to a nameless recipient, cast a shadow over the inheritance, leaving a lingering question mark hanging over the legacy of Grandma Rose. The lavender scent now carried a hint of intrigue and unanswered questions, a quiet testament to the enduring power of secrets. The family was divided, not by greed over the meager inheritance, but by the tantalizing possibility of a much larger fortune, hidden away in the opaque world of offshore banking. The drama, it seemed, was far from over.