When my grandmother Grace passed away, I was sure I’d been forgotten.
At the will reading, my mother practically lunged for the house before the lawyer even finished the address. My sister Cynthia snatched the car keys as though they had always been hers. Everyone left with something shiny, enviable—something worth boasting about.
Inside was a single framed photo: Grandma and me at the zoo when I was six. My pigtails were crooked, my cheeks sticky with melted ice cream, and a giraffe was lowering its head toward us. Grandma’s hand held mine—steady, soft, patient.
That was all. No check. No heirlooms. Just a picture in a cracked wooden frame.
I drove home furious, convinced it simply confirmed my role in the family: the overlooked one, the helper, the daughter who never demanded anything. I tossed the frame onto the table and ignored it. Later, annoyed by the cracked wood, I opened the back panel to fix it.
