After my mother died, I assumed the toughest part would be grieving.
Was wrong.
The attorney read her will coldly: *“All monetary assets and property are to be transferred to my eldest daughter, Clarissa.” * The end. Zero explanation or mention of me.
Clarissa grinned proudly. She always was the favorite—or made sure everyone thought so. The only time she called Mom was to ask. Designer bags. A “loan.” A solution to her constant mess.
I sat by Mom’s hospital bed every weekend, gave her soup when chemo made her nauseated, and handled the paperwork and insurance when she was too tired to move.
I wasn’t expecting a fortune or to be wiped.
I felt numb after reading. I left silently. I didn’t want Clarissa’s false pity or the lawyer’s cold glare. I needed air.
Someone called my name as I exited the hallway.
Wait—Miss Lennox?
I turned. Dr. Amir, my mother’s longterm doctor. He seems tentative but polite.
I need to give you something,” he said gently.
I blink, bewildered. He then took a small, sealed package from his coat pocket. My name was written in my mother’s wobbly but legible script.
“She gave this to me weeks before she passed,” he whispered. Said it was for you alone. She wanted no one to know.”
Opening it made my hands quiver. The letter was folded and had a little key on the back. I gasped at the first line:
“Dear girl, if you’re reading this… Clarissa achieved her wish. But you? Got what counted. Always my love.” *
A tear fell from my cheek.
The letter stated that my mother thought Clarissa would exploit her at the end, especially as she weakened and confused. My mother was exhausted from fighting Clarissa about the will. She gave in because she didn’t want to argue in her final weeks, not because she loved Clarissa more.
But she remembered me.
The key was for a modest local credit union safety deposit box. I visited the next morning.
A velvet pouch had my mother’s wedding ring, a locket with a childhood photo of us, and a handwritten journal with recollections of late-night discussions, her favorite recipes, my first piano concert, and her pride in me.
At the box bottom?
Cashier’s cheque for ~$75,000.
A letter was scrawled in the napkin corner: “This is yours.” I trust you to use it well. Clarissa wanted everything, but you deserved tranquility. Love, Mom.” *
I hugged that card and cried—not because of the money, but because she hadn’t forgotten me.
My mother’s truth, love, and trust were more valuable than Clarissa’s mansion and financial accounts.
That was worth more than money.
