I thought my father’s will would shape my future. But when the lawyer read a name I didn’t recognize, everything I believed about my family unraveled.
All my life, I lived under my grandmother Loretta’s strict rules. After my mother passed away, she raised me with cold precision. “Sit up straight. A lady never slouches,” she’d say. She molded me into her image—disciplined, composed, and obedient.
So, when my father died, Loretta immediately turned her focus to preserving the family legacy. She was confident the inheritance would restore our family’s name. That morning, she told me, “We’ll use your father’s money wisely, Mona. He worked hard for this.” I believed her. I always had.
But in that lawyer’s office, our plans shattered.
“As per the will,” the lawyer said, “your father’s estate goes to Brenna.”
“Who?” I blurted, confused.
“Brenna is your father’s other daughter,” the lawyer replied.
Loretta gasped, her voice sharp. “This is absurd! My son wouldn’t leave everything to someone we don’t even know!”
But it was no mistake. My father had left everything—his house, savings, and investments—to a woman named Brenna. A sister I never knew existed.
“We’ll fix this,” Loretta whispered to me. “We’ll find this Brenna and make it right.”
Following Loretta’s orders, I visited Brenna’s home. A modest, weathered little house with flaking paint and uneven steps. Before I even knocked, the door creaked open.
“Hi!” she greeted me brightly. “You must be Mona! I saw you from the window. Come in, but be careful—floorboard near the kitchen squeaks.”
Inside smelled like clay and damp earth. Pottery projects were scattered across the kitchen, and mismatched vases lined the windowsill. She tapped things, rearranged them, muttered to herself—but her smile never left her face.
“You’re my sister,” she said with gentle excitement.
“Yes,” I said slowly, still processing.
“I never met him,” she said softly, speaking of our father. “But my mom always said I had his hands.”
Her openness disarmed me. There was no bitterness, no resentment—just quiet curiosity and warmth.
“He left me a gift,” she said.
“A gift?”
“Yes, he called it that. Did he leave you one too?”
I hesitated. “Not really.”
“That’s not fair. Everyone should get a gift.”
Then, out of nowhere: “You should stay for a week. You can tell me about him. What he was like. And in return, I’ll share the gift.”
I wasn’t sure what to say. But something about her made it hard to say no. “Okay,” I replied. “A week.”
Staying with Brenna was like stepping into a different world. Life slowed down. Breakfast was simple—bacon, eggs, tea on paper plates. “Less mess, more time for clay,” she explained.
She had her rituals: aligning plates just right, touching leaves along the walking path, adjusting little things until they felt “just so.” There was something soothing in her rhythm.
One morning, she handed me a lump of clay. “Try something.”
I fumbled. The clay collapsed between my fingers.
“It’s not terrible,” she said gently, helping me shape it. “It’s just new.”
Each day brought more of her calm, her odd wisdom. And the more time I spent with her, the less I cared about Loretta’s mission. But Loretta could sense the shift. Her phone calls became sharper, more urgent.
“Mona, she’s naïve. She doesn’t know what to do with money. You need to make her sign it over. Use her trust if you have to.”
I stayed silent. For the first time, I was questioning Loretta—and myself.
The next day, Loretta showed up unannounced. Her disapproval filled the room like poison.
“This is where you’ve been? This mess?” she sneered. Turning to Brenna, she snapped, “You don’t deserve what you were given. You’re not one of us.”
Brenna flinched, muttering “Gift, gift,” while clinging to her pottery table.
“What’s that?” I asked gently.
She pointed to a cabinet. Inside was a stack of old letters—every one addressed to our father, written by Brenna’s mother.
Loretta’s expression twisted when she saw them.
“You knew,” I whispered. “You kept them apart.”
“I did what I had to!” she spat. “That woman wanted to trap my son with a broken child. I told her to stay away.”
“You never even let him know,” I said, my voice trembling. “You robbed them both.”
“He found out eventually,” Loretta snarled. “That’s why he changed his will.”
“And now you want me to betray her too?” I asked.
“She’s not like us.”
“No,” I said. “She’s better.”
Loretta stormed out, furious. And I turned to Brenna.
“I’m so sorry. I love you, sis.”
“Want pancakes?” she asked suddenly, as if nothing had happened.
I laughed. “I’d love some.”
That day, everything changed. We sat on the porch eating pancakes while the sun dipped low. And we began building a life together.
We repaired the house. I helped her grow her pottery business. I painted designs on her ceramics, rediscovering a creative part of myself I’d long buried. People came from other towns to buy our work. Word spread.
It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t what Loretta would’ve approved of. But it was ours.
And for the first time in my life, I wasn’t living for someone else’s expectations. I was living for me—and for the sister I never knew I needed.