When I spotted my brother, Maverick, cruising around in a shiny new red convertible, alarm bells rang. He was always broke, hopping from one job to the next. There was no way he could afford that car — unless something shady was going on.
Then came the gut punch: I learned through Facebook — not from my family — that our beloved Gran had passed away. No one called. No text. Just a cold post. Grieving, I flew home to visit her grave, and that’s when Mr. Anderson, one of her close friends, told me the truth: Gran had left me $20,000 in her will. But I never saw a cent. Suddenly, Maverick’s mysterious new lifestyle made perfect sense.
I went to confront him, only to find him limping on crutches beside his wrecked convertible. Turns out, karma had already stepped in. He admitted he’d taken the money, saying he planned to “pay it back.” But Gran had always known who he really was.
Later that day, I got a call from her lawyer that changed everything: the $20,000 was just a fraction of what she left me. Her full estate — the house, the savings, even investments — was all mine. Gran had quietly protected me, even after death. For the first time, I felt seen, valued — and finally, like I truly mattered.