I wanted to share my grandmother’s inheritance with my Aunt Carol, despite her harshness, until her true feelings ended that plan. After my parents at five, my grandma, Lila, raised me in her home, filled with cinnamon and soft hugs. She showed me love is a person, not a place. Aunt Carol, her daughter, lived there too, but kept me at arm’s length. I once gave her a pink bookmark I crafted; she tossed it, muttering, “I don’t read trash.” She skipped my choir concerts and forgot birthdays, making me feel like an outsider, though I yearned for her warmth.
As Grandma’s health waned, I cared for her—cooking, helping her dress, reading her mysteries. Carol stayed in her room, binge-watching shows, claiming she “couldn’t cope” with caregiving. She’d fuss over dirty dishes, ignoring Grandma’s pain. When Grandma died, I grieved deeply, holding her hand. At the will reading, Carol arrived late, distracted. I got the house and $450,000; Carol got an old garage. Grandma’s note said: “Sophie loved me. Carol didn’t.” Carol left angrily, leaving me guilty, wanting to fix our bond.
I planned to give Carol $85,000, hoping it would unite us. I had papers prepared and brought a tart and tulips to her garage on her birthday. She opened the door, scowling. “What, Sophie?” she snapped. I offered birthday cheer, but she spat, “You’re adopted. You don’t belong.” Her words stung—she’d always known I wasn’t blood. I tore the papers. “That was $85,000,” I said. “Grandma was right.” I left the tart and walked off. Carol’s lawyer later demanded $180,000 for “emotional loss.” I mailed Grandma’s note: “Carol gets a lesson.”
Learning I was adopted shook me, but a private investigator revealed Grandma, a distant aunt, adopted me after my young parents passed. She loved me wholly, blood or not. I forgave her silence, trusting her heart. I’ve written to distant kin, painted Grandma’s house in soft pinks, and started our dreamed-of bakery, crafting tarts. Sipping cocoa on the porch, I cherish Grandma’s true legacy—love, care, kindness. Carol’s bitterness gets nothing. My bakery’s small, but it’s mine, rooted in Grandma’s love, not the resentment Carol holds.
