t against the floor. That’s when I saw something hidden inside—a tiny rolled-up piece of paper. I picked it up, and my hands started shaking.
It was her handwriting. A series of numbers, followed by one word: PASSWORD. I remembered her once mentioning a bank account, but I’d brushed it off.
Now, curiosity took over. I found the account—and what I saw left me speechless. She’d been saving money for me all these years.
But there was a note attached to the will:
“The funds will only be released if you become a registered foster parent.”
I sat there, stunned. Even after death, she was still guiding me—still teaching me how to give back the love I once rejected. I’ve started the process of becoming a foster parent.
And honestly, it scares me. Not the responsibility, but the thought that some kid might look at me the same way I looked at her—cold, ungrateful, distant. Maybe that’s what she wanted—to help me understand what real love means, the kind that asks for nothing in return.
And for the first time in my life, I think I’m finally ready to learn.
