I was the family joke for months.
Grandma’s will came and went. My siblings strutted away with deed copies, jewelry appraisals, and keepsakes that glittered. Me? I walked home with… a plant. Spindly, stubborn, sun-faded. Her favorite, sure, but still—a plant. My brother snickered, calling it “potted pity.” My sister asked if I needed help “keeping it alive, at least.”
I laughed along. What else do you do when it feels like you’re the grandchild who never mattered?
Years later, moving day, the plant was the last thing left in my apartment. I stared at it on the windowsill, the only green in a room echoing with emptiness. On a whim—or maybe instinct—I knocked on my neighbor’s door.
“Carla,” I said, “want to babysit my inheritance for a week while I unpack?”
She grinned and took it like I’d handed her a puppy. That night, my phone rang until the table rattled.
“Get over here. Now.”
Half-laugh, half-gasp, urgent. Breathless, I sprinted across the hall and found her in her kitchen, the plant on the counter—and a small, rusted key in her palm. Wrapped in a frayed handkerchief with my name stitched in crooked blue thread.
“Where—” I started.
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