**THE MISSING WILL**
Grandma Rose always favored my sister, Clara. It was obvious in every Christmas gift, every birthday card, every… everything. So, when the lawyer called, saying I needed to be present for the reading of the will, I braced myself for the inevitable. I fully expected Clara to inherit the house, the antique jewelry, everything.
Then came the bombshell: I was the sole beneficiary. Clara’s face crumpled, a mask of betrayal and rage. “There’s been a mistake,” she hissed, her eyes narrowed. “Grandma would *never* do this.”
The lawyer cleared his throat, a nervous tic in his jaw. “Actually,” he stammered, pulling out another document, “there was a…codicil.”⬇️
The lawyer’s voice, usually smooth and assured, cracked like brittle ice. He unfolded a single sheet of paper, its edges yellowed with age, the ink faded but legible. “A codicil, added just… three days before your grandmother passed. It stipulates that if, and only if, the original will cannot be located, the entire estate is to be divided equally between you and your sister.”
A gasp escaped Clara’s lips, silencing the room. My own breath hitched. The original will – the one naming me sole beneficiary – was missing. Vanished. Gone. The lawyer’s anxious glance flitted between us, a silent plea for explanation.
Clara, her face now a mask of calculating fury, turned to me. “You did this,” she accused, her voice dripping venom. “You stole the will! You always resented Grandma’s favoritism, you scheming…”
“I didn’t!” I protested, my voice rising in a desperate plea. “I swear, I had nothing to do with it. I haven’t even seen the will.” Tears welled in my eyes, a mixture of anger, fear, and bewilderment. This wasn’t how I envisioned inheriting anything, let alone embroiled in a bitter feud with my own sister.
Days turned into weeks. The lawyer, overwhelmed, hired a private investigator. The house, once a comforting sanctuary of old memories, became a battleground of suspicion and recrimination. We meticulously searched every corner, every drawer, every dusty attic space. Nothing.
Then, a breakthrough. The investigator discovered an old, forgotten safe deposit box in Grandma Rose’s name at a bank branch she hadn’t used in years. Inside, nestled amongst yellowed photographs and forgotten trinkets, was a small, leather-bound book. It wasn’t the will. It was Grandma Rose’s diary.
As we read it aloud, a chilling narrative unfolded. Grandma Rose, in her frail final days, had meticulously documented her plan: a carefully orchestrated test to see if her love for her granddaughters was genuine or conditional on material gain. The “missing” will was a calculated ruse, a phantom designed to expose the true nature of their hearts. The codicil, a final layer to the elaborate game, was her way of ensuring both of them learned a valuable lesson. The diary concluded with her handwritten inscription: “The greatest inheritance is not wealth, but love, a love that endures beyond material possessions.”
Clara’s face, previously hardened with resentment, softened. She looked at me, her eyes brimming with tears, not of anger, but of shame and regret. We didn’t inherit a house or jewels, but something far more precious: a newfound understanding and a repaired relationship. The house, sold to settle legal fees, became a symbol not of division, but of a shared past, a bridge to a future built not on material gain, but on genuine sisterly love. The missing will, in its absence, had bequeathed us a legacy far richer than any fortune.