Uncle Jack threw his hands in the air, pacing.
Mr. Johnson remained calm, as if he had expected this exact reaction.
“The contents of the will are confidential,” he said. “Now, unless you are the designated recipient, I must ask you to leave the premises.”
No one moved.
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.
“Put her down,” my mother said without hesitation.
The words hit me like a blow.
“You can’t do that!” I cried.
“She’s old,” Uncle Jack added. “It’s the humane thing.”
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.
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.
Grandma used to say, “Dogs know who you are when people forget.” Now I understood.
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 Continue reading…
