“The contents of the will are confidential,” he said. “Now, unless you are the designated recipient, I must ask you to leave the premises.”
My uncle growled, “She never loved us.”
“That’s not true,” I said softly. “She cared. She just believed money should be earned, not handed out.”
Mom snapped, “She was heartless! Heartless in life and in death!”
And then Berta barked. A sharp, indignant bark — as if she was defending Grandma’s honor.
Aunt Florence wrinkled her nose. “What about the dog?”
“Put her down,” my mother said without hesitation.
The words hit me like a blow.
“You can’t do that!” I cried.
Mom shrugged. “If you want her, take her. She’s worthless anyway. Just like this whole situation.”
“I’ll take her,” I said firmly.
And with that, the only inheritance I had — the one nobody wanted — was placed in my hands.
Life with Berta
Bringing Berta home meant raising my rent. It meant rearranging my schedule. It meant having a constant companion breathing beside me while I made coffee, studied charts, or fell asleep on my couch after long shifts.
But she brought warmth into my apartment. The kind of warmth I hadn’t felt in years.
I missed her — fiercely. She had been strict, but loving. Stern, but supportive. She believed in me in ways my own mother never did.
The confrontation at my door
Three nights later, someone banged on my door.
Hard.
When I opened it, my mother stood there, eyes sharp, breathing fast.
“I know you have it,” she hissed.
“Have what?”
“The money. The inheritance. Don’t lie to me, Meredith.”
“Mom, the only thing she left me is—”
“Don’t play stupid,” she snapped. “You were always her favorite. You owe me that money!”
Before I could respond, she turned and stormed away, leaving me trembling.
I slid to the floor, tears spilling. Berta settled beside me, resting her head on my lap.
That was when I noticed it — a small metal tag on her collar.
In tiny letters, an address… and the number 153.
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