My older siblings always resented me, calling me Dad’s pet, and their coldness hurt. When Dad died, I was there, and the key he gave me unlocked a gift my siblings would envy forever. In his last moments, I held Dad’s hand in a room heavy with the scent of medicine and worn novels. His weak smile eased my heart, even as my siblings pestered the lawyer about his estate. “Get the key from the drawer,” he whispered, coughing. I found a small brass key in his nightstand, tucked under papers. “It’s for a basement cabinet,” he said softly. “It’s for you, Emma.”
“What’s inside?” I asked, confused. He smiled, eyes closing. “You’ll know soon.” He passed that night, peacefully, and I sobbed like never before. At the will reading, my siblings—Mark, Luke, and Claire—sat tense, expecting a fortune. The lawyer said, “To Mark, Luke, and Claire, one dollar each.” Claire shouted, “This is nonsense!” The lawyer added, “Assets go to a kids’ charity, and the house becomes a shelter.” Their faces darkened. Then he said, “To Emma, my love and a key to a cabinet.” Their eyes shot to me, but I stayed silent.
At 22, I was the youngest, always pushed out by siblings who thought Dad loved me more after Mom’s death. They obsessed over his money, even in his final days, while I just wanted him. I grieved alone for a month, then went to Dad’s house, still untouched by my siblings, who were fighting the will. The basement was cluttered with old tools and decorations. I found a hidden panel, and the key unlocked it. Inside was an envelope and a leather journal. The letter read, “Dear Emma, you stayed with me, and I love you for it. The journal has details of a house in Oregon, bought before you were born. It’s yours, with the deed and keys. Build a life you love. Watch out for your siblings. Love, Dad.”
Tears streamed as I held the letter, feeling Dad’s warmth. The journal held keys, a deed, and an address. I sat, stunned by his trust. It was more than a house—it was his belief in me. Soon, Claire visited my place, smiling too sweetly. “Hey, Emma, did Dad leave anything special in that cabinet?” I said, “Just memories.” Her eyes narrowed. Mark later stopped me at a store. “Dad gave you something, didn’t he?” I brushed him off. Luke sent a lawyer’s letter, demanding I list estate items, but I’d moved everything to a safe deposit box.
I took time off and drove to Oregon. The house was a dream—wooden walls, a big porch, glowing in the evening light. Inside, I found Dad’s workspace, tools lined up, and photos of me with him and Mom, plus letters he never sent. I spent weeks there, sorting through feelings and memories. I started writing about Dad, my thoughts turning into pages. Maybe it’ll be a book, or maybe it’s just for me. Dad gave me a fresh start. One night, on the porch with his journal, I whispered, “Thanks, Dad. I won’t let you down.” The wind replied, and I smiled, ready for my new path.