**THE MISSING WILL**
Dad always favored Liam. Always. But to change the will? After all these years?
I found it tucked inside his old fishing tackle box – a new document, dated just last month. My name wasn’t even mentioned, not once. Liam got everything: the house, the business, even Mom’s jewelry.
Fury burned in my chest. I grabbed my phone, ready to call Liam, to scream until my voice gave out. But then I saw the post-it note stuck to the back of the will. The handwriting wasn’t Dad’s. ⬇️
The post-it note read, in elegant cursive, “Forgiveness. Seek it in the old oak.” A chill snaked down my spine. The old oak. That ancient tree at the edge of the property, where Dad and I had spent countless childhood afternoons. He’d always said it held secrets. Could this be one?
I raced to the oak, the wind whipping my hair like a vengeful spirit. The tree, gnarled and ancient, seemed to watch me with its leafless branches. I ran my hand along its rough bark, searching for a hidden compartment, a cavity. Nothing. Disappointment, sharp and bitter, clawed at me. Was this another cruel joke?
Then, a glint of metal caught my eye. A small, rusted latch, almost invisible against the bark. With trembling hands, I opened it, revealing a hollow space. Inside, nestled amongst dried leaves, was a second will.
This one was even more recent, dated just a week ago. And this time, *I* was the sole beneficiary. Relief washed over me, so potent it almost buckled my knees. But beneath the relief, a tremor of unease persisted. Why two wills? And what about the note?
The second will included a final, cryptic instruction: “The truth lies with the lighthouse keeper.” My breath hitched. Old Man Hemlock, the reclusive lighthouse keeper, had always been a bit of an enigma, a figure shrouded in local legend. He’d been Dad’s closest friend, yet they hadn’t spoken in years following a bitter dispute over a fishing license.
I found Hemlock hunched over a chessboard, his face etched with the map of a life lived hard. He looked up, his eyes, the color of storm-tossed seas, assessing me with unsettling calm.
“Your father,” he began, his voice raspy, “wanted to make amends. He knew Liam wouldn’t accept a divided inheritance. The first will was a test, a way to gauge your character. The post-it note… that was my doing. Your father asked me to guide you, to ensure you understood his intentions.”
He revealed a tale of years-long deception. Liam, consumed by greed, had forged the first will, manipulating a vulnerable Dad weakened by a sudden illness. Hemlock, witnessing this betrayal, had intervened, preparing the second will. The fishing license dispute, it turned out, was a smokescreen to mask Liam’s escalating criminal activity—an embezzlement scheme that had threatened to ruin the family business.
The climax arrived when Hemlock produced a confession letter, written and signed by Liam, admitting his crimes. The letter, however, bore a postscript. In a shaky hand, Liam wrote, “I know you’ll understand, Father. It was for her…”
A name, scrawled at the very bottom, sent a fresh wave of icy dread through me: Sarah, my daughter, Liam’s niece. The embezzled funds, he claimed, were meant to secure her future, to protect her from a looming threat, a threat he never fully explained.
I was left with a choice: exposing Liam and potentially harming Sarah, or letting him go free, sacrificing justice for the sake of my granddaughter. The old oak stood silent, a silent witness to the complex web of deceit, loyalty, and love that had played out beneath its ancient branches. The weight of the decision, as heavy as the old oak itself, rested squarely on my shoulders. The ending, it seemed, was only just beginning.