I never thought my grandmother’s will would become the thing that split our family apart, but that’s exactly what happened.
I’m 27, and until recently, my life was quiet and predictable in a way that felt comforting. I rented a small apartment downtown, worked a dull insurance job, and spent most weekends at my grandmother’s little blue house on the edge of our Midwestern town.
Her name was Margaret, though everyone called her Marg. The nickname came from an old family mispronunciation, and she carried it proudly for the rest of her life.
Grandma Marg was warmth in human form. She never forgot a birthday, baked pies that made the entire neighborhood smell like cinnamon and butter, and refused to let anyone leave without leftovers, even when you insisted you were full.
Above everything else, she adored her dog, Bailey.
Bailey was a golden retriever mix with a whitening muzzle and stiff hips, the kind of dog whose soulful eyes made you feel guilty for reasons you couldn’t explain. Every morning, he sat at Grandma’s feet while she drank instant coffee, watched the local news, and slipped him tiny pieces of toast as if it were a sacred ritual just between them.
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