My grandmother passed away last year, and with her went the last gentle constant in my life. When the time came to divide her estate, my cousins swooped in like vultures. They fought over furniture, jewelry, even old kitchenware they had never cared about before.
I stood quietly in the corner, feeling strangely out of place in the home where I’d spent countless summers. When the executor finally handed me a small box, I could tell by the looks on their faces that it contained nothing of value—at least not to them. Inside lay a simple, dull ring with a cloudy gray stone.
It looked like something pulled from a flea market bin. My cousins smirked, almost pitying me, and whispered among themselves as they carried their new treasures away. I slipped the ring onto my finger anyway.
It didn’t look like much, but it had been hers. And wearing it felt like a way of keeping her close. Still, every time I glanced at it, a little guilt tugged at me.
I wondered if she had
What happened next changed everything…
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