I never imagined the night I rushed my stepmother to the ER would be the last time I’d see her alive.
She collapsed in the kitchen, barely able to speak. I didn’t hesitate—I drove her through red lights, praying she’d hold on. While doctors worked, I called her daughter, Mia.
“Call me when she’s gone,” Mia said flatly, then hung up.
Two days later, my stepmother died.
At the will reading, Mia arrived dressed in black designer clothes, dry-eyed and composed. She inherited everything—the savings, the apartment, the jewelry. When the lawyer turned to me, he handed over my inheritance.
A single old potted plant.
I wasn’t angry. That plant had sat in the corner for years. I’d watered it, trimmed it, talked to it on lonely nights. It felt strangely right.
Mia laughed. “She used you,” she said. “Free care, free help. Hope you learned something.”
The next morning, my phone wouldn’t stop ringing.
It was Mia—hysterical. She remembered something our stepmother once said about hiding her most precious possession. She’d searched everywhere. Found nothing.
Then she noticed the plant.
I took it home and lifted it from the pot.
At the bottom was a sealed bag filled with old gold coins—worth far more than the apartment or cash.
My stepmother used to whisper to me, “I didn’t give you birth, but you deserve love.”
This was how she said it one last time.
