As my relatives argued over Grandma’s inheritance, I brought home her cherished dog and discovered the hidden truth she meant only for me.

When my grandmother died, our family unraveled with astonishing rapidity, splintering into disputes over items before her funeral flowers had even withered.

I arrived into her house anticipating sorrow, not the frenzy of family tearing up drawers in a frenzied hunt for a will that wasn’t there.

Through the commotion, the only thing that mattered to me was Daisy—Grandma’s aged terrier who sat shivering near her empty armchair, still waiting for a woman who would never come.

Everyone else dismissed the dog as a burden, but I scooped Daisy into my arms and carried her out of the house, leaving behind the accusations, the greed, and the unraveling of people I thought I knew.

Back home, Daisy grieved in her quiet way, pacing corners and refusing food, while I tried holding myself together around the hollow place Grandma had left behind.

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