No explanation, no mention of me. Clarissa smirked, practically glowing with pride. She had always been the favorite—or at least, she made sure everyone believed she was.
She never called Mom unless she wanted something. Designer bags. A “loan.” A way to fix the messes she always created.
Meanwhile, I was the one who sat by Mom’s hospital bed every weekend, who brought her soup when chemo made her nauseous, who handled the paperwork and insurance when she was too tired to lift her head. I didn’t expect a fortune—but I didn’t expect to be erased, either. After the reading, I was numb.
The key was for a safety deposit box in a small local credit union. I went there the next morning. Inside, I found a velvet pouch containing my mother’s wedding ring, a locket with a childhood photo of the two of us, and a handwritten journal filled with memories—our late-night talks, her favorite recipes, my first piano recital, and how proud she was of the woman I’d become.
