My Half-Sister Laughed When I Inherited Nothing but a Cactus—Nine Weeks Later, She Went Silent

My half-sister Alyssa had a talent for making people feel small. Even at our father’s funeral, she stood confident, already certain of what she deserved. When the will was read, she smirked.

She inherited ninety thousand dollars.
I inherited Dad’s cactus.

Alyssa laughed. “I have kids,” she said casually. “You’re forty-two. The plant can keep you company.”

I didn’t argue. I took the cactus home and cried quietly on my kitchen floor. Still, the plant mattered. My dad had cared for it for years—watering it carefully, moving it into the sunlight each morning. It felt like the last piece of him I could touch.

So I cared for it the same way.

Three days later, Alyssa called, suddenly eager. “That cactus would look great in my living room. I’ll come get it.”

I said no. She hung up.

Nine weeks later, while repotting the cactus, my fingers hit something hard at the bottom of the pot. It wasn’t a rock—it was a USB drive, sealed in plastic.

Inside were investment records worth over four hundred thousand dollars. Then a video.

My dad appeared on the screen, tired but smiling. He told me how proud he was, how he’d watched me become strong and kind. The money, he said, was for my future. No one else knew.

That’s when Alyssa’s sudden interest made sense.

But the money wasn’t what saved me.
That message was.

Whenever I feel small again, I watch it—and remember that I was loved.