When Grandma passed away, my relatives swarmed her house, desperate for her will. I didn’t rush. Instead, I took home her old dog, Berta — unaware that this simple act would unlock the real legacy Grandma had left behind.
In our family, it usually took money or death to bring everyone together. That day brought both.
I stood by Grandma’s grave, Berta at my side, watching my relatives’ tense faces. Berta had been Grandma’s closest companion — “the only soul I can fully trust,” she used to say. In a family like ours, that spoke volumes.
Grandma had built her fortune from scratch, supporting everyone’s education but refusing to hand anyone money directly. “If you want something, earn it. That’s how you stay free,” she’d say. Her children never forgave her, and in her final years, they barely spoke to her — until now, when her house suddenly mattered more than her life.
After the funeral, we gathered at her home, a room filled with tension and silent greed. The lawyer, Mr. Johnson, arrived. “There isn’t much to discuss,” he said calmly.
“What do you mean?” my mother snapped.
“Cassandra left no inheritance to any of you.”
Chaos erupted. Shouts, curses, accusations — but I stayed silent. Then Berta barked sharply, as if to defend Grandma’s secret.
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