That weekend, I drove to the cabin. It stood just as I remembered—simple, warm, untouched by greed. Inside, sunlight filled the rooms, and on the kitchen table sat a small wooden box with a note in Grandma’s handwriting.
She wrote that some people count what they’re owed, while others treasure what they’re given—and that the cabin was always mine, not because of blood, but because of heart. Victoria got the inheritance she wanted. I got something far greater.
