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“You really should have listened to your father,” Uncle Jack interjected. “Tom’s car dealership is expanding, and Alice’s salons are the talk of the city. You’ve settled for so little.”
“I help people,” I said quietly. “It’s enough.”
The tension was broken by the arrival of Mr. Johnson, a man whose briefcase seemed to hold the weight of the world. He entered the room and declined a seat, standing with a posture that suggested he was eager to be elsewhere.
“I will be brief,” Mr. Johnson began, his voice flat. “Cassandra was very specific. None of the biological children or grandchildren in this room will be receiving a direct cash inheritance or the title to this estate.”
A collective gasp of outrage shattered the silence. “That’s impossible!” my mother shrieked. “We are her flesh and blood! Who gets the house? Who gets the holdings?”
“I am not at liberty to disclose the beneficiary at this time,” Mr. Johnson said, his eyes scanning the room. “However, I must ask you all to vacate the premises by sundown. The locks will be changed.”
The room erupted into vitriol. Uncle Jack called his mother a “bitter old witch,” and Aunt Florence began weeping—not for her mother, but for the vacation home she had already picked out in Tuscany. Amidst the chaos, Berta let out a sharp, mournful bark.
“And what about that?” Aunt Florence pointed a manicured finger at the dog. “That animal is twelve years old and half-blind. What happens to her?”
“Put her down,” my mother said coldly. “She’s a reminder of a woman who clearly hated us. It’s the most humane thing.”
“You can’t be serious,” I whispered, my heart hammering against my ribs. “Grandma loved her. Berta is family.”
“I can’t,” I said, my voice trembling. “My apartment has a strict no-pet policy. I’d lose my lease.”
“Then she goes to the shelter,” Alice said, checking her reflection in a compact mirror. “Or the vet. It’s not our problem.”
I looked down at Berta. She looked up at me with cloudy, trusting eyes, her tail giving a single, weak thump against the floor. I thought of Grandma’s voice, telling me I was strong enough to manage.
“Fine,” I said, my voice hardening. “I’ll take her. I’ll find a way.”
The family filed out, hurling final insults at the house and the memory of the woman who built it. I packed Berta’s bed, her favorite squeaky duck, and her medications into my car. My landlord, a man usually moved only by late fees, saw the look on my face and agreed to let Berta stay for an extra three hundred dollars a month. It was a king’s ransom on a nurse’s salary, but it was the only choice I could live with.
Life became a blur of double shifts and long walks with a dog that moved at the speed of a tectonic plate. A week later, my mother appeared at my door, her face contorted with rage. She accused me of hiding a secret will, of “manipulating the old woman” during her final days. When I showed her my empty bank account and the bag of cheap dog food in the corner, she spat on my floor and called me a liar.
After she slammed the door, I sat on the floor and pulled Berta into my lap. As I stroked her neck, I noticed the metal tag on her collar was slightly askew. I turned it over. On the back, an address was engraved alongside the number 153. Curiosity piqued, I unscrewed the small locket attached to the collar—a piece I had always assumed was merely decorative. A small, silver key tumbled into my palm.
My Dearest Meredith,
If you are reading this, it means you chose a living soul over a bank account. I knew my children would see Berta as an inconvenience, a ‘flea-ridden’ remnant of a woman they only tolerated for her gold. I needed to ensure that my life’s work went to someone who understands that the most valuable things in this world cannot be liquidated. Everything—the estates, the trust funds, the textile holdings—is now yours. You are the only one who showed decency when there was nothing to gain. Use it to heal more people, Meredith. You were always my favorite.
As I clutched the documents, a shadow fell over me. My mother and Uncle Jack were standing ten feet away. Jack had hired a private investigator to follow me, convinced I was leading them to the “stashed millions.”
“Hand it over, Meredith,” Jack demanded, stepping forward. “That’s family money. It doesn’t belong to a nurse.”
“It belongs to the person who took the dog,” a voice rang out. Mr. Johnson stepped from behind a pillar, his phone in hand. “A digital sensor alerted me the moment this locker was opened. The condition of the will was ‘blind compassion.’ Meredith took Berta believing it would cost her her home and her savings. That act of selfless love triggered the transfer of assets.”
My mother tried to lunged for the folder, but Mr. Johnson stepped between us. “If either of you touches her, I will have the police here in minutes. You were given your education and your start in life; you will receive nothing more.”
They left, defeated by their own greed, leaving me standing in the cold station with a folder that changed my life and a dog that had saved it.
I didn’t buy a mansion or a fleet of cars. I kept my job at the hospital, but I donated enough to build a new pediatric wing. I bought a house with a massive, fenced-in yard where Berta could spend her final years napping in the sun. Grandma was right—I was a nurse, and I knew how to fix things. And with her help, I fixed everything I could.
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