My grandpa, the person I was closest to, passed away last week. At the will reading, I was stunned—everything was left to my sister, who had barely visited him. Certain it was a mistake, I asked her to split it.
She refused. “I can’t go against Grandpa’s wishes.”
That night, I found a folded note tucked into the pocket of an old coat—the same one I’d helped Grandpa mend years ago. My hands shook as I read.
“If you found this, it means you cared enough to still wear the coat we fixed together. I didn’t include you in the will because I didn’t want to measure your love in money. I knew you were there for me—not for what I owned.”
Tears blurred my vision as I read on.
“Look under the loose floorboard in my study. Something special awaits—meant for someone who understands value beyond wealth.”
The next morning, I went to his house. Beneath the floorboard was a wooden box holding a small notebook titled Our Stories—filled with memories of our walks, breakfasts, and quiet moments together. Tucked beside it was a letter explaining there was also a modest savings account in my name.
In that moment, my anger disappeared.
Grandpa had given me more than money—he trusted my heart.
And that, I realized, was the greatest inheritance of all.
