“My brother texted me, ‘I inherited Grandma’s jewelry while I was still at her funeral.’
And I replied, ‘Did you read the last paragraph?’
Because I was holding the actual will in my hand.
He had found an old draft in Grandma’s drawer and assumed it was the official document, posting photos of the jewelry on Facebook, saying he’d finally have money for a new car.
I stood in the cemetery, my phone vibrating with notifications as Brandon’s post went viral among our relatives. The September rain had stopped, leaving everything smelling of wet earth and flowers. Around me, cousins and aunts whispered condolences, completely unaware that my brother was already dividing up our grandmother’s possessions before her casket had even been lowered into the ground.
My phone buzzed again.
Another comment on Brandon’s post. Someone wrote, ‘Finally getting what you deserve.’
My jaw clenched as I slipped the phone back into my black coat pocket, my fingers brushing against the envelope the attorney had handed me an hour before the service.
Brandon hadn’t even bothered to attend the funeral.
He’d texted our mother saying he was too upset, that saying goodbye at the hospital two days ago had been enough.
But I knew the truth.
I’d seen him leaving Grandma Eleanor’s house yesterday evening, his car trunk conspicuously full, a satisfied smirk on his face that made my stomach turn.
Grandma Eleanor had raised us after our parents divorced when I was seven and Brandon was ten. She’d been a gemologist, spending forty years building a collection that museums had tried to purchase. Every piece had a story, a history, a meaning.
The sapphire necklace from Burma that she’d acquired in 1978.
