He was just playing in the garden, same as always. Digging, barking, chasing bees. But then he came back with something in his mouth — muddy, yellowed, sealed with wax.
A letter. From Grandma. At first, I laughed.
Thought maybe he found some old junk. But the name on the front was mine. Inside, it said she’d written a second will.
One nobody else knew about. One where she left everything to me — the house, the land, the savings. Now the rest of them are spiraling.
Calling me a liar. Saying I forged it. My aunt actually screamed in my face, “That damn mutt just cost us our legacy.”
Thing is… I know Grandma meant it.
And I think she wanted me to find it this way. But somehow I felt torn. I didn’t want to fight my family.
I didn’t want to become the enemy. At the same time, Grandma’s handwriting was clear as day. I’d seen her loops, her slants, the way she dotted her i’s with tiny circles instead of dots.
Nobody could fake that. The will wasn’t typed. It was handwritten.
Grandma’s exact phrasing, her old-fashioned expressions. “To my dearest grandchild, the one who always sat with me when the others were too busy, I leave my home, my land, and my accounts. You carry my heart, and I want you to carry my legacy too.”
When I read that line, I froze.
My eyes blurred. I remembered every Sunday afternoon, when she’d sit in her rocking chair by the window and tell me stories about her childhood. I remembered helping her bake bread, watching her hands tremble but never spill the flour.
She always said, “You’re the only one who listens, truly listens.”
And yet, when I showed the letter to everyone, they acted like I was some kind of thief. Uncle Martin laughed so hard he nearly choked on his cigar. “Oh please.
A dog digging up a will? You expect us to believe that?”
Aunt Clara, red-faced, pointed her finger at me like a weapon. “You planted it.
You always were her favorite, and now you’re trying to use it to steal what belongs to all of us.”
My cousin Lydia rolled her eyes and muttered, “Pathetic.”
The more they talked, the smaller I felt. But deep down, I knew Grandma didn’t trust them. She’d seen the way they treated her in her final years — rushing visits, sighing impatiently when she repeated herself, dodging her calls.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
TAP → NEXT PAGE → 👇
