When my grandmother passed, the reading of her will left me feeling like the family punchline. My siblings walked away with jewelry, deeds, and heirlooms polished to perfection. I walked away with… a plant.
Not even a particularly striking one. Its leaves were sun-faded, its stems spindly. My brother called it “potted pity.” My sister asked if I needed help keeping it alive. Everyone chuckled, and I laughed along too, though inside I felt small. Out of all the grandchildren, I seemed to matter the least.
