I planned to share my grandmother’s inheritance with my Aunt Diane, despite her lifelong neglect, until her cruelty showed her true self. After my parents’ death at four, my grandma, Helen, became my world, raising me in her warm home scented with vanilla and herbs. She taught me home is built on love. Aunt Diane, living with us, was cold. I once painted her a picture in her favorite green; she shrugged, saying, “I don’t hang kid stuff.” Her absence at my games and forgotten birthdays stung, but I dreamed we’d bond someday.
When Grandma fell ill, I took over—bathing her, reading stories, driving to checkups. Diane hid in her room, glued to her phone, saying caregiving “wasn’t her thing.” She’d bicker over lights left on, ignoring Grandma’s needs. After Grandma passed, I mourned alone, holding her hand till the end. At the will reading, Diane slouched in, uninterested. I inherited the house and $500,000; Diane got a rusty shed. Grandma’s letter read: “Nora cared for me. Diane didn’t.” Diane stormed out, leaving me torn with guilt.
I decided to give Diane $90,000, hoping it would heal us. I had papers drawn up and brought a pie and roses to her shed on her birthday. She opened the door, glaring. “What’s this, Nora?” she barked. I smiled, but she snapped, “You’re adopted. You stole our money.” Her words burned—she’d always distant because I wasn’t blood. I ripped the papers apart. “That was $90,000,” I said. “Grandma knew best.” I left the pie and walked away, head high. Diane’s lawyer demanded $200,000 for “hurt feelings.” I sent back Grandma’s letter: “She earns nothing.”
Learning I was adopted rocked me. A private investigator found Grandma, a distant relative, adopted me after my teen parents died. She loved me as her own, blood irrelevant. I forgave her secret, trusting her heart. I’ve met far-off relatives, painted Grandma’s house in warm golds, and launched a bakery dream we shared, baking pies daily. On my porch, coffee in hand, I honor Grandma’s gifts—love, strength, loyalty. Diane’s bitterness gets no share. My bakery grows slowly, but it’s mine, built on the love Grandma gave me, not the spite Diane chose.
