The day we buried my grandfather, Ezra, the sky felt as heavy as the grief in my chest. He was the only person who truly saw me. My mother, Lenora, was always too distracted by social status, and my father had long ago lost himself to addiction. I always felt like an outsider in my own family, but Grandpa Ezra loved me unconditionally.
Immediately after the funeral, my mother pulled me aside. Without a shred of grief, she demanded I sign over the house Grandpa had left me to my sister, Marianne. Her excuse was that Marianne had children and I was just a “young bachelor.” When I refused to go against Grandpa’s final wishes, my mother’s mask slipped. She threatened me, saying I would regret it if the “truth” about our family came out.
Two weeks later, she followed through on that threat by suing me. Her legal claim was a self-inflicted wound to her own reputation: she alleged that she had cheated on my father and that I was not biologically related to Grandpa Ezra. Therefore, she argued, I had no right to the house and it should go to Marianne, the “true” descendant.
But my mother underestimated Grandpa Ezra. In the courtroom, I played a video he had recorded before he died. In the video, he sat in his favorite blue chair and revealed he had known the truth for years. He had even done a DNA test in secret. He looked directly into the camera and said he knew I wasn’t his biological grandson—but that he didn’t care. He chose me because of who I was, not who my father was, and he explicitly warned the court that any attempt by my mother to steal the house was against his will. I watched the color drain from her face as her own lies were used to cement my inheritance.
