**THE MISSING WILL**
Grandma’s lawyer called yesterday. The reading is tomorrow. Everyone’s supposed to be there. Seems simple enough, right? Wrong.
I saw my uncle sneaking into her study last week, the one she kept locked after Grandpa died. He swore he was looking for old photos. Photos, my ass. He always had sticky fingers.
I bet he’s already found what he was looking for. But did he find… everything? ⬇️
The mahogany table gleamed under the harsh fluorescent lights of the lawyer’s office, reflecting the nervous energy radiating from the assembled family. My Aunt Mildred, a vision in mournful black, dabbed at her eyes with a lace handkerchief, her sobs punctuated by Uncle Edgar’s ostentatious sighs. My father, ever stoic, sat ramrod straight, his jaw clenched tight enough to crack walnuts. And me? I felt a tremor of fear, a cold premonition settling in my stomach.
Mr. Fitzwilliam, the lawyer, a man whose age seemed to be etched into every wrinkle on his face, cleared his throat. “Unfortunately, there’s a complication.” He paused, letting the suspense hang heavy in the air. “Grandma’s will… is missing.”
A collective gasp filled the room. Aunt Mildred’s sobs escalated. Uncle Edgar’s carefully constructed mask of grief cracked, revealing a flicker of something else – triumph?
“Impossible,” my father boomed, his voice echoing the disbelief in the room. “My mother was meticulous. Everything was in order.”
Mr. Fitzwilliam produced a thin folder. “There is, however, this.” He unfolded a single sheet of paper, a codicil. It stated, in Grandma’s familiar, spidery handwriting, that should her will be lost or destroyed, all her assets were to be divided equally amongst her grandchildren – myself, my cousin Lily, and Edgar’s son, a ne’er-do-well named Barnaby.
Uncle Edgar’s face contorted. His carefully cultivated image of sorrow crumbled entirely. He leaped to his feet, his voice a furious bellow. “This is a forgery! A blatant attempt to steal from me, my rightful inheritance!” He pointed an accusing finger at me. “You! You conniving little…”
His outburst was cut short by Lily, who until now had remained a silent observer. “Actually, Uncle Edgar,” she said calmly, her voice betraying a steely edge, “I found something rather interesting in Grandma’s study last week. Tucked away in a secret compartment behind a loose brick in the fireplace.” She produced a small, ornate wooden box. Inside, nestled amongst faded photographs, was Grandma’s will. And it was very different from the codicil.
The will dictated that the majority of her estate would go to a wildlife sanctuary, a cause Grandma passionately supported. A pittance was left to each grandchild. But the true bombshell was the final clause: a hefty sum bequeathed to… Barnaby.
Uncle Edgar’s face went white as a sheet. His eyes darted between Lily and Barnaby, then back to the will. He slumped back into his chair, defeated. The triumph had vanished, replaced by a devastating realization. His attempt to steal the will had backfired spectacularly. He hadn’t just failed to acquire the fortune, he’d made himself look guilty, and Barnaby, the only one to benefit from the original will’s disappearance, was suddenly the most suspicious person in the room. The missing will had been found, yet the true inheritance and the identity of its true manipulator remained shrouded in a new kind of uncertainty. The drama, far from being resolved, had only just begun.