I adored my Grandma Marlene. Until college pulled me away, we had lived together in her cozy little house surrounded by her collection of old clocks. Each one had its own rhythm, its own story, and together they filled her home with warmth. She was my safe place and my biggest supporter. One evening, her voice trembled on the phone as she asked me to come home because she “didn’t have much time left.” I dropped everything and rushed to her side. My brother Brian was already there, but instead of comforting her, he grumbled about the dust in the house.
In those final days, I cooked, cleaned, and fixed little things around the home, just to make her comfortable. She would smile softly, saying it reminded her of when Grandpa was alive. A few days later, she slipped away peacefully in her sleep. Brian didn’t even show up for the funeral. Two weeks later, the family gathered at the lawyer’s office for the reading of her will. Brian received the house he had always wanted. He smirked like he had won some great prize. My name was called next: Grandma had left me “her old clocks.” Brian chuckled under his breath.
Then the lawyer handed me an envelope written in Grandma’s familiar handwriting. Inside it read: “Never underestimate these clocks. They are rare antiques from your grandfather, each worth about $40,000. Everyone gets what they truly deserve, my dear.” I looked at the five clocks she had left me—together worth nearly $200,000—but more than that, they carried the love and history of both my grandparents. Brian’s smug grin vanished instantly.
“They’re worth that much?” he muttered, stunned. I hugged one clock close, listening to its steady ticking. “Yes,” I said quietly. “Grandma knew exactly what she was doing.” I walked out of that office not just with an inheritance, but with the most meaningful gift of all—her wisdom, her love, and a piece of her heart that I will carry forever.