Rain fell steadily the day they laid Grandma to rest. The kind of cold, relentless rain that seeps through clothing and chills you to the bone.
One young woman stood beneath a black umbrella, her fingers going numb from cold, listening to the soft, hollow sound of dirt hitting the polished wood of the casket. The wind whipped through the cemetery with unusual force, tugging at the edges of her borrowed scarf.
Beside her stood Victoria, her half-sister, dabbing at completely dry eyes with a lace handkerchief that seemed more prop than necessity.
Victoria leaned closer, her expensive perfume cutting through the damp air with sharp intensity.
“Blood matters,” she hissed quietly, ensuring no one else could overhear. “You were just charity to this family.”
The words struck harder than the winter wind ever could.
Two Girls, Two Different Stories
Grandma had taken in the younger girl when she was only seven years old. This happened after her mother, who had worked as Grandma’s housekeeper, passed away unexpectedly.
Victoria was already ten at that time, already nursing resentment about the situation. To her, this newcomer was an outsider who somehow ended up at the same dinner table, wearing hand-me-down dresses, sitting in the same church pew every Sunday.
But to Grandma, the younger girl was simply family. One of her girls, loved without qualification or condition.
The Reading of the Will
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