Then the lawyer said, “She left a special clause for her daughter-in-law.”
That was me.
I didn’t. Not immediately.
But as soon as I held the key, I remembered a small attic door in her house. Years ago, before things soured, I’d asked about it. She’d snapped, “That room’s off limits.”
Now I understood.
We drove to the house. It felt quieter without her. The attic door was behind a faded curtain. The key fit perfectly.
Inside, the air smelled of cedar and dust. A trunk sat in the center. I opened it.
Journals. Dozens. Some leather-bound, others spiral notebooks. I pulled one out—dated 1973.
She had written everything. Her fears. Her loneliness. Her longing to paint. Her dream of Paris. Her regret.
One journal held a photo of a watercolor—a woman standing alone in a garden. On the back: Me, before I disappeared.
In another, she wrote about Lucas. Her parents’ disapproval. Letting him go. Keeping the necklace as a memory of who she’d been.
I spent hours in that attic.
I didn’t tell my husband everything. Just that she’d left behind journals. He didn’t press.
Weeks later, I did something unexpected. I submitted a painting—based on her journal photo—to a local art show. Under a fake name.
It was accepted.
People loved it. One called it “quietly heartbreaking.”
I submitted two more.
I told them. “She was my mother-in-law. She passed recently. These were in her attic.”
They asked for more.
Soon, her work was in a real exhibit. Not huge, but meaningful. People cried in front of her paintings. Said they saw themselves in the quiet ache of her brushstrokes.
I wish she could’ve seen it.
Or maybe she knew. Maybe that’s why she left me the key.
Months later, another letter arrived. From the lawyer. A safety deposit box—only accessible by me.
Inside was a check.
$40,000.
And a note:
“If you ever decide to chase your own dream, this is my way of helping. Don’t tell my son. He wouldn’t understand. He’s too practical, like his father. But you… you have something in you. Use it. For you. Or for someone else who needs a hand.”
I cried like I hadn’t in years.
I used the money to open a small gallery downtown. A space for overlooked artists—especially older women—who never had the chance to be seen. I named it The Teardrop. After her necklace. After her.
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