When my grandmother died, the family descended like vultures—arguing over money before her grave had even settled. I held Berta, Grandma’s old dog, who had been her shadow for years. Everyone else ignored her, caught up in greed.
At the lawyer’s reading, the shock came: Grandma left nothing to anyone. My mother sneered, “What about the dog?” I said, “I’ll take her.” That was the only thing anyone would surrender.
Back at my apartment, Berta settled in, and I noticed a small metal tag with an address and the number 153. Inside, a key led me to a train station locker. Inside was a folder in Grandma’s handwriting:
“I leave everything to the one who cares for Berta without expecting reward. I know who that will be.”
The lawyer confirmed it—my inheritance wasn’t about money, it was about heart. My family’s greed couldn’t claim it because I had chosen love over gain.
Sitting with Berta, I realized Grandma’s final lesson: loyalty and compassion are the true legacy.