Grandma Last Gift! The Photo That Changed Everything

When my grandmother Grace passed, I figured the joke was on me. At the reading of her will, my mother claimed the house before the lawyer even finished reading the address. My sister Cynthia grabbed the car keys like they’d always belonged to her. Everyone walked away with something impressive enough to brag about.

Then the lawyer handed me a thin package—with a sympathetic smile I instantly resented.

Inside was a framed photograph: Grandma and me at the zoo when I was six. My hair was in crooked pigtails, my face smeared with ice cream. A giraffe leaned toward us, its lashes brushing the top of my head. Grandma’s hand held mine—steady, warm, unhurried. That was it. No check. No jewelry. Just a cracked wooden frame.

I drove home furious, convinced it proved what I’d always believed: I was the afterthought. The helper. The one who wouldn’t complain. I dropped the frame on the table and walked away. Later, irritated by the crack, I pried the back loose to fix it.

An envelope slipped out.