Mr. Johnson raised a hand. “The will is clear. Cassandra left nothing to any of you.”
No one moved. No one accepted it.
“She never loved us,” Uncle Jack snapped.
“She did,” I said quietly. “She just didn’t reward entitlement.”
“That woman was cold,” my mother said. “Even now.”
Berta barked sharply, as if disagreeing.
“What about the dog?” my aunt asked, irritated.
“Put her down,” my mother said instantly.
I turned on her. “No.”
“She’s old,” my uncle shrugged. “It’s practical.”
“If someone wants her, take her,” my mother said dismissively. “Otherwise, she’s a burden.”
“I’ll take her,” I said.
And just like that, the only thing no one wanted became mine.
Berta came home with me to my small apartment. Money was tight, space was tighter, but she fit perfectly. She followed me everywhere, slept by the door, watched me with the steady calm of a soul that had seen loyalty tested and proven.
A few nights later, there was a knock.
My mother stood outside, eyes sharp.
“You have it,” she said.
“Have what?”
“The inheritance. Don’t pretend.”
“The only thing I got was the dog.”
She sneered. “You were always her favorite. You owe me.”
“I owe you nothing.”
She left angry—and unconvinced.
That night, as Berta rested her head in my lap, I noticed a small metal tag on her collar. It wasn’t decorative. It opened.
Inside was a tiny key.
The engraved address led me to the train station.
Locker 153 held a plain folder with my name on it.
Inside was a handwritten note.
“I leave everything I earned to the person who chooses Berta without expecting anything in return.
I already know who that will be.”
I cried right there on the platform.
Behind me, a voice hissed, “I knew it.”
My mother. My uncle beside her.
Before I could respond, the lawyer stepped forward.
“This was intentional,” he said calmly. “The inheritance belongs to Meredith. She took the dog before knowing there was anything to gain. That was the condition.”
My uncle scoffed. “Then I’ll take the dog now.”
“It doesn’t work that way,” the lawyer replied. “Love revealed the heir. That was your mother’s final lesson.”
Later, he told me, “She didn’t want her legacy to reward greed. She wanted it to land where kindness still lived.”
When I got home, Berta looked up at me, tail thumping softly.
My grandmother hadn’t just left me her estate.
She left me proof that compassion is never wasted—and that sometimes the greatest inheritance walks quietly beside you, asking for nothing, guiding you exactly where you belong.