When my father died, everything shifted. My sister Lara inherited the entire house—every square inch of it. Me? I was left with an old chessboard. That was all. No note, no explanation. Just the polished wooden set we used to play with every Sunday afternoon. At first, I thought it was a parting jab—a quiet message that I mattered less than the daughter who rarely showed up. I didn’t cry. Didn’t object. I just sat there while the lawyer read the will. Lara smiled like royalty ascending a throne.
“A house for me,” she murmured smugly, “and a hobby for you.”
She laughed, of course. She always did when she thought she’d won. I refused to give her the satisfaction of a reaction. I picked up the chessboard, walked out, and let the wind carry me wherever it pleased.
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