When my grandmother, Grace, passed away, I expected her will to reflect the quiet but deep relationship we had built. She raised me from the time I was six, stepping in when my mother and sister were too consumed with their own lives to notice the little boy slipping through the cracks. With her, I learned what it meant to be cared for: handwritten lunch notes, cheering from the front row at every school event, and soft encouragement even on the days I didn’t believe in myself. So when we gathered after her funeral to hear the will, I believed her presence would linger in whatever she left behind. Instead, my mother inherited the house, my sister received the car, and I was given only a single framed photo of the two of us at the zoo—one I had seen on her hallway wall for years.Continue reading…
