I’m Ava, 26, and I left home four years ago to flee a family where I felt unseen. My parents always lifted my brother, Caleb, above me, making me the outsider. My grandma, Violet, was my refuge, sneaking me treats and listening to my stories. When my partner, Leo, suggested moving to the city, I left Caleb, my parents, and past pain behind. Family contact dwindled, but Grandma Violet’s calls were my lifeline, her care proving I was valued.
One afternoon, I saw an online tribute: Grandma Violet’s picture with “Rest in Peace.” My breath caught—no one had told me she’d passed. Heartbroken, I flew home to honor her at her grave. In town, I saw Caleb in a gleaming red convertible. Caleb, who lived paycheck to paycheck, in a car like that? Suspicion flared. At Grandma’s grave, her friend Mr. Walsh greeted me. “Did you get the $20,000 she left you?” he asked. I stared. “What?” His dismay said it all—Caleb had taken it.
Furious, I drove to Caleb’s trailer, but halted. The convertible was destroyed, front caved in, tires slashed. Caleb stood outside, on crutches, face cut, leg braced. Consequences had found him. “What happened?” I asked, rage pausing. He mumbled, “Crashed.” I demanded, “Why’d you steal Grandma’s money?” He confessed he bought the car, meaning to repay me. “That was for me,” I said. “She chose me.” Caleb always took our parents’ love, but this was too far. He had no reply.
My phone chimed—Grandma’s lawyer, Mr. Reed. “Ava, Violet knew Caleb might try this,” he said. “The $20,000 was bait. Her house, accounts, everything—yours.” I teared up. Grandma had secured my future. I looked at Caleb. “Hope that ride was worth it.” He faltered, but I left, feeling whole. Grandma’s love had prevailed. If someone took what was yours, would you believe justice would answer?
