So here’s the thing—our grandma, bless her, spent most of her life in a faded old trailer that leaned slightly to one side when it rained too much. Sweet woman. Sharp as a tack. But honestly, my spouse was practically salivating the moment she got sick. He was convinced she was secretly sitting on a fortune. Kept dropping lines like, “She’s probably got bonds tucked under the mattress.” It was gross, the way he waited—not for her to get better, but for her to be gone.
Then came the day of the will reading. My spouse, let’s call him Bernard, was practically buzzing, sitting at that long oak table like it was the final round of a game show. The lawyer looked at us, adjusted his glasses, and said, “Who’s the husband here?” Bernard raised his hand like a kid in school.
That’s when it all came undone.
Turns out, Grandma had sold her trailer months before she passed. It wasn’t even in her name anymore. She’d been quietly receiving a small sum each month from her neighbor, Erna—an old friend who lived across the street—and she used that money to do something no one expected.
She traveled.
Nothing dramatic, just a few bus trips to see cousins out of state, a beach weekend here and there, a little getaway to the mountains. Small, quiet joys. She hadn’t lived miserably—she’d just lived simply. Her “estate” was modest: some furniture, a few personal items, and a letter. Addressed to me.
The lawyer handed it to me and made it clear: there was no hidden fortune. No offshore account. No stack of cash under the floorboards. Bernard’s face twisted into disbelief. He practically barked at the lawyer, demanding he “check again.” The lawyer stayed calm, said it had all been thoroughly searched and settled.
