When my grandmother passed away, I thought our family would pull closer together. Instead, we splintered faster than I could process. One moment we were sharing warm memories of her strength and kindness, and the next, every conversation turned into a battle over her estate — or rather, the missing will everyone assumed she left behind.
Grandma Margaret was the definition of organized. She labeled everything, kept decades-old receipts neatly filed, and never missed a detail. So when the lawyer said there was no updated will, the shock hit all of us hard.
Within days, relatives flooded her house in a frenzy — opening drawers, unlocking old chests, digging through storage bins. It wasn’t just greed. Grandma’s home was a museum of family history, filled with jewelry, antiques, handwritten letters, and little treasures everyone felt they deserved.
I didn’t go there for any of that.
I went because of Daisy.
Daisy was Grandma’s twelve-year-old terrier mix — a small, scruffy, half-blind sweetheart who had spent every day glued to her side. When I walked into the house, Daisy was curled beside Grandma’s favorite chair, trembling, confused, and very alone.
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