“Remind me, Meredith,” Aunt Florence said sweetly, “are you still doing that… nursing thing?”
“I am,” I replied, Berta’s heavy head resting on my knee.
“You should have listened to your father,” Uncle Jack said. “Tom’s dealership is expanding. Alice’s salons are thriving. You settled for so little.”
“I help people,” I said quietly. “It’s enough.”
My mother sighed theatrically. “I honestly don’t know where I went wrong with her.”
Mr. Johnson arrived then, his briefcase heavy with finality. He declined a seat.
“Cassandra was very clear,” he said. “None of the biological children or grandchildren present will receive a direct cash inheritance or ownership of this estate.”
The room erupted.
“That’s impossible!” my mother shouted. “Who gets the house? The holdings?”
“I’m not at liberty to say,” Mr. Johnson replied. “You must vacate by sundown. The locks will be changed.”
Insults followed. Jack cursed his mother. Florence wept—not for Grandma, but for the future she had imagined. Berta barked sharply.
“And what about that?” Florence snapped, pointing at the dog. “She’s old and half-blind.”
“Put her down,” my mother said flatly. “It’s humane.”
“You can’t be serious,” I whispered. “Grandma loved her.”
“Then take her,” Jack sneered. “Add her to your list of burdens.”
“I can’t,” I said. “My apartment doesn’t allow pets.”
“Then the shelter,” Alice said, barely looking up from her mirror.
Berta looked at me, tail thumping once. I thought of Grandma’s voice.
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll take her.”
I packed Berta’s bed, toys, and medication. My landlord agreed to keep her for an extra three hundred dollars a month. It nearly broke me, but it was the only choice I could live with.
Life became double shifts and slow walks. A week later my mother appeared, accusing me of hiding a will. When I showed her my empty account and cheap dog food, she spat on my floor and left.
That night, I noticed the metal tag on Berta’s collar was loose. On the back was an address and the number 153. Inside the locket hung a small silver key.
The address led to a row of lockers at the train station. Locker 153 held a leather-bound folder. Inside was a letter.
My dearest Meredith,
If you’re reading this, you chose a living soul over money. Everything—estates, trusts, the company—is yours. You understood what couldn’t be liquidated.
As I closed the folder, my mother and Uncle Jack appeared. Jack demanded the documents.
“It belongs to the person who took the dog,” Mr. Johnson said, stepping forward. “That act triggered the transfer.”
They left empty-handed.
I didn’t buy extravagances. I kept my job. I built a pediatric wing. I bought a house with a fenced yard where Berta spent her last years in the sun.
Grandma was right. I knew how to fix things—and with her help, I fixed everything I could.