My sister got the house. I got a chessboard. At first, I thought it was Dad’s final slight — until I noticed something odd rattling inside one of the pieces.
“Life is like chess,” he always said. “You don’t win by shouting. You win by planning three moves ahead.”
I used to groan every time he said it. But that day, I would’ve given anything to hear him say it once more.
I didn’t say a word when he died in the same bedroom where we played every Sunday. I stayed silent when the neighbors came with casseroles and condolences. I said nothing when Lara — my half-sister — arrived, glowing, wrapped in a coat more expensive than the funeral.
“Wow,” she said to Mom. “It still smells like him.”
Of course it did. His coat still hung by the door.
Lara hadn’t come to grieve — she came to claim.
We sat together as the lawyer read the will.
“To my daughter Lara, I leave the house and all it contains. It cannot be sold while the current resident remains.”
Lara didn’t look at me. Just smiled.
“And to my daughter Kate…” the lawyer continued.
I held my breath.
“…I leave my chessboard.”
Lara snorted. “A house for me, and a hobby for you. Fitting.”
I didn’t reply. I just took the chess set and left. Her laughter echoed behind me. I walked with no direction until my feet led me to the old park, where moss-covered chess tables still stood.
I sat. Opened the box. My fingers moved on instinct — bishop, knight, pawn, king.
“You’re really doing this?”
Lara’s voice cut through the quiet. She slid into the seat across from me.
“Still clinging to Daddy’s toys? Predictable.”
She moved a pawn without asking. I responded. The game began.
“You know,” she said, “he thought this game built character. But it’s just wood. Just meaningless shapes.”
She made another move. “I got the house.”
I stayed quiet.
“You got a game.”
She grinned. “You always thought this meant something. But it’s just wood.”
Then, with a flourish, she moved. “Checkmate,” she said, slamming her piece down. For dramatic effect — or maybe spite — she swept the pieces off the board.
“No point clinging to fantasy.”
The pieces scattered — some hit the table, others landed in the grass. One rolled near my foot. I picked it up. It felt heavier than usual. I shook it gently.
Click.
That wasn’t the sound of wood. Another piece rattled when I picked it up.
There’s something inside.
I glanced up. Lara was watching. For a moment, I thought she heard it too. But she tilted her head, bored, and looked past me.
“Come to dinner tonight,” she said. “Mom wants us to honor him. Together.”
“Did she really?” I asked.
“Of course. It’s what he would’ve wanted.”
She walked off, heels tapping like a countdown.
I didn’t know if she was lying. With Lara, either answer was possible.
That invitation wasn’t a gesture.
It was a move.
She was playing.
And now, I had to play too.
That night, Lara was already in the kitchen when I came down — humming, cooking, plating dishes like a seasoned chef.
She even wore an apron. The same one she once called “tragically domestic.”
“Evening,” she said, pulling out rosemary chicken. “There’s a vegan version for Mom.”
Our mother blinked. “You cooked?”
“Followed a recipe,” Lara said, smiling. “Even garnished with fresh parsley.”
Of course she did.
I sat across from someone wearing my sister’s face.
Throughout dinner, she played her part — cheerful, helpful, hospitable. She didn’t look directly at me.
Not until I quietly placed the chessboard on the hallway table — in plain sight, closed.
My move.
A test.
She didn’t flinch. But her smile tightened.
Our mother noticed.
“You’ve been very sweet today,” she said to Lara. “Unusually sweet.”
“I’m trying. We’re family.”
“Some bonds prove themselves,” Mom replied. “Especially under pressure. When someone chooses to stay.”
Her eyes were on me. I smiled thinly.
“So this is support?”
Mom nodded. “Your father saw who stood beside him. Who gave him peace.”
“Peace?” I echoed. “You mean silence. He wanted loyalty, not love.”
“And you think you were that?”
I looked at Lara. “I stayed. I bathed him. Fed him. Watched him fade.”
“And he left you a game,” she said.
“Maybe that says more about him than me.”
Her mother leaned forward.
“He gave my daughter the house. She sacrificed more than you know. Maybe stop acting like the victim.”
“I’m not acting. You’ve just never seen me speak.”
Silence.
Then Lara laughed.
“Let’s not ruin dinner.”
Her mother added, “You should start packing tomorrow. Just so there are no… issues.”
I stared at them — at their orchestrated performance of peace.
I quietly cleared my plate and left the room.
Locked my door.
But I knew — dinner wasn’t over.
The house fell still. I waited.
Then — a creak. A drawer. A shuffle.
Lara knelt by the chessboard. The pieces lay scattered. A paring knife beside her.
She cracked open a rook. Pulled out a velvet pouch, glittering.
“So,” I said. “Not just wood after all.”
She spun around. Her eyes narrowed.
“You knew.”
I didn’t respond.
She stood. “I solved it. He hid the real gift inside the game. And I found it.”
“You shattered it open.”
“He gave you the game — but gave me the meaning.”
“Did he?”
Her mother stepped into the room. “She figured it out. And you didn’t.”
I looked at them — smug, certain, victorious.
Lara opened the pouch and let a few stones spill into her palm. They shimmered.
“Check and mate,” she said softly.
I met her gaze.
“No. Zugzwang.”
“…What?”
“It means every move you make now only worsens your position.”
Her mother frowned. “What are you talking about?”
I tapped one of the broken pieces.
“Glass. Colored beads. From a sewing kit I had as a teen.”
Lara’s smile faltered.
“I switched them the morning after the funeral,” I said.
“You’re lying.”
I pulled out an envelope.
“Deposit confirmation. The real pouch is at the bank. In my name.”
Lara recoiled. Her mother said nothing.
“There’s more,” I said, retrieving a folded letter from the chessboard case.
“My father’s real will. He hid it. Because the official one was just the opening move.”
I read aloud:
“To my daughters,
If you’re reading this, the game is complete.
Lara — I loved you. I gave you every opportunity to show who you are. To your mother — I gave all I could. I hope it brought peace.
Kate — you stayed. You bore the weight. I gave you little but left you the map. My final test.
If honesty wins, share the inheritance. If not, everything belongs to Kate.
I gave you every piece of me. I needed to see who would protect the whole.”
I folded the letter. Silence swelled between us.
Then I looked at Lara.
“Checkmate.”