Everyone was waiting for the reading of the will — the moment they believed would change their lives. For the first time in years, our entire family stood in one place.
Money. And death.
The combination worked every time.
After the funeral, the real storm began
We gathered at Grandma’s house — the same house she had lived in for 47 years. Every corner was familiar to me. Every picture frame, every plant, every old piece of furniture carried memories.
But none of the others saw that. All they saw was what the house was worth.
My Aunt Florence broke the silence first.
“Meredith,” she said, adjusting her expensive necklace, “remind me… what kind of doctor are you again?”
“I’m a nurse,” I replied politely.
“I help people,” I said quietly. “That’s enough for me.”
My mother, arms crossed, added in a cold mutter, “Can’t believe I raised someone with no ambition.”
Our relationship had been tense for years. Three awkward phone calls a year — birthdays, Thanksgiving, Christmas — and even those felt like obligations, not conversations.
The lawyer arrived — and everything exploded
Mr. Johnson, Grandma’s long-time attorney, stepped inside carrying a briefcase.
He didn’t smile. He didn’t take a seat. His face was unreadable.
“What do you mean short?” my mother snapped.
He cleared his throat.
“Cassandra has not left any inheritance to any of you.”
The room erupted instantly.
Aunt Florence shouted, “That can’t be right!”
Uncle Jack threw his hands in the air, pacing.
My mother demanded, “She owned three properties, savings, investments — where did it all go?”
Mr. Johnson remained calm, as if he had expected this exact reaction.
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