**THE MISSING WILL**
Grandma’s lawyer called yesterday, said the will reading is tomorrow. I thought everything was settled years ago when she gave the house to Mom. Now this?
Mom’s been acting strange since the call, pacing and muttering. I asked her what’s wrong, but she just snapped, “It’s none of your business, darling.”
Tonight, I saw her sneaking into the attic with a flashlight. I followed, and saw her rummaging through the old chest where Grandma kept her important papers. I went closer, my heart pounding in my chest. Mom was clutching a crumpled envelope with my name on it. ⬇️
My breath hitched. “Mom,” I whispered, my voice trembling. She whirled around, the flashlight beam catching the frantic gleam in her eyes. The crumpled envelope, now visibly shaking in her hand, fluttered like a trapped bird.
“Sarah,” she hissed, her voice a low, dangerous rasp. “Get out.”
But I couldn’t. This was Grandma’s will, the one the lawyer hadn’t mentioned. What was in it? Why was Mom so terrified? The attic air, thick with the scent of dust and forgotten memories, felt heavy with unspoken secrets.
“Mom, please,” I pleaded, stepping closer. “What is it?”
She shoved the envelope into her handbag, her movements jerky and uncontrolled. “It’s nothing, Sarah. Just…old letters. Go to bed.” She didn’t look at me, her gaze fixed on the dusty floorboards. The desperation radiating from her was palpable.
The next day at the lawyer’s office, the atmosphere was thick with anticipation. The lawyer, a stern woman with eyes that missed nothing, read the will. It was, as expected, largely straightforward. The house went to Mom, as Grandma had always said. But then came the bombshell. A substantial sum of money, a sum far larger than anyone had anticipated, was bequeathed…to me.
The room fell silent. Mom’s face went white, her knuckles bone-white as she gripped the arms of her chair. I felt a surge of guilt, a cold wave of unease. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t Grandma.
That evening, I found Mom in the garden, weeping. The crumpled envelope was in her hands, ripped open, the contents scattered on the damp grass. It wasn’t a will; it was a letter from Grandma, dated years before her death. It detailed a secret investment, a risky venture that had unexpectedly blossomed into a fortune. Grandma had instructed Mom to keep it secret, to protect her from the potential fallout if the investment had failed. The lawyer had inadvertently omitted it from the official will.
The letter also revealed a deeper truth. Mom hadn’t been acting strange; she’d been grappling with an immense burden of guilt and responsibility, terrified of losing everything, terrified of my anger, terrified that the news would destroy us all. She hadn’t been stealing; she’d been protecting.
We sat there in the fading light, the scent of roses mixing with the earthy smell of the damp ground, surrounded by scattered pages of Grandma’s letter. I reached out and took her hand, the fragile bone of her fingers mirroring my own sudden understanding. The money wasn’t the issue. It was the trust, the unspoken burden, and the secret that had come between us.
The unspoken question, the future of our relationship, remained. The resolution was bittersweet, fragile as the petals of a wilting rose. The money was a distraction from the real reconciliation that needed to happen, a process of rebuilding trust, a slow, deliberate healing that lay ahead, a future still undefined and full of the promise of both hope and uncertainty.