I thought the joke was on me. That was my first reaction when my grandmother Grace passed and the will was read. My mother claimed the house before the lawyer even finished saying the address. My sister Cynthia wrapped her fingers around the car keys like they’d always belonged to her. Everyone left with something large enough to brag about. Then the lawyer turned to me with a single, thin package—and a sympathetic smile I hated instantly.
It was a framed photograph: Grandma and me at the zoo when I was six. My hair hung in crooked pigtails, my face half-sticky from ice cream. A giraffe bent toward us, its long lashes brushing the top of my head. Grandma held my hand like she always did—steady, warm, unbothered by anything around her. That was it. No check. No sentimental jewelry. Just a picture in a wooden frame with one corner cracked.
I drove home furious, convinced it confirmed every suspicion I’d carried since childhood—that in our family, I was the afterthought. The helper. The sensible one who wouldn’t make a fuss. I dropped the frame on my kitchen table and walked away. But the crack nagged at me. Later, stubborn and annoyed, I pried the backing loose to fix it.
An envelope slipped out.
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