Mia had searched the apartment all night and found nothing. Then she looked at the plant. Confused, I took it home and carefully lifted it from the pot.
At the bottom was a sealed plastic bag. Inside were gold coins—old, heavy, and unmistakably valuable. An inheritance from my stepmom’s great-grandmother, meant only for emergencies.
She’d never needed them. Never mentioned them. Those coins were worth far more than the cash and apartment Mia inherited.
My stepmom had been a quiet woman. Sometimes harsh. Rarely affectionate.
But she used to say something to me when Mia wasn’t around:
“I didn’t give you birth,” she’d whisper, “but I know you deserve love more than anyone else in this family.”
I think this was her way of saying it one last time—after she was gone.
