When the lawyer began reading my mother’s will, I thought I knew exactly what was coming. My mother had always been generous — to everyone. My brother, our cousins, even distant relatives who rarely called. But me? I was the one who stayed. I held her hand through every hospital night, made her tea when she couldn’t lift her arms, and listened when she had nothing left to say.
So when the lawyer announced that her $5 million estate would be divided among everyone except me, I felt the ground vanish beneath my feet. All she left me was an envelope — plain, sealed, with my name written in her careful handwriting.
Inside wasn’t money or an explanation — just a small brass key and an address written on a slip of paper.
At first, I was hurt. Angry. Betrayed. After everything I’d done, this was what I got? But my mother never did anything without a reason. So I drove to the address.
It led me down a quiet country road to a small stone cottage surrounded by wildflowers, the kind she used to grow when I was a child. When I opened the door, the scent of lavender filled the air — her favorite. On the kitchen table sat another envelope with my name on it.
Her handwriting covered the page.
Continue reading on next page…