After I refused to give my mom my inheritance, she invited me to a family meeting…

I’ve watched how you handle money, Amber, he said. You’re the only one in this family who understands its value. I learned from the best, I replied, trying to keep my voice steady.

Patricia. He sighed heavily. Your mother has never understood that money isn’t just for spending.

It’s responsibility. It’s security. It’s opportunity.

He looked at me with intense clarity. I’ve made arrangements. You’ll be taken care of.

Grandpa, don’t talk like that. You’re going to be fine. Listen to me, he insisted.

When the time comes, there will be pressure. Standing your ground won’t be easy. I promised him I would honor whatever decisions he’d made, though I didn’t fully understand what he meant then.

In his final months, he shared stories I’d never heard before about my mother’s teenage years, how she’d stolen from his wallet, forged his signature on checks, and once emptied his savings account, he’d set up for her college fund to buy a car. I failed her somehow, he confessed during our last real conversation. Gave her too much, perhaps, or not enough of what truly mattered.

He squeezed my hand. But you, Amber, you turned out just right. A week later, he slipped into a coma.

Three days after that, surrounded by family, Harold James Matthews took his final breath. I felt a piece of myself leave with him. The reading of the will took place two weeks after the funeral.

We gathered in Mr. Peterson’s law office, a wood-paneled room that smelled of leather and old books. My mother arrived dressed in designer black, her eyes hidden behind large sunglasses despite the dim interior lighting. Rachel and Jason sat on either side of her, with Craig hovering protectively behind them.

I sat alone across the table. Mr. Peterson cleared his throat and began reading. The first few minutes covered small bequests, charitable donations, items for distant relatives, a generous pension for his longtime housekeeper.

Nothing surprising. Then came the bombshell. And to my granddaughter, Amber Nicole Matthews, I leave the remainder of my estate, including my business holdings, investment portfolios, real estate properties, and personal effects.

With the exception of items specifically designated to others in this document. The silence that followed was deafening. I sat frozen, the magnitude of what had just happened washing over me in waves.

Then my mother ripped off her sunglasses. This is a mistake, she hissed. Read it again.

Mr. Peterson adjusted his glasses. There’s no mistake, Mrs. Carter. Your father was very specific in his instructions.

That’s impossible. She slammed her hand on the table. I’m his daughter, his only child.

Mom, please. I whispered, aware of the lawyer’s uncomfortable expression. Don’t you mom me? She snapped.

You knew about this, didn’t you? You manipulated him when he was sick and vulnerable. Rachel jumped in her voice trembling with either emotion or performance. I couldn’t tell which.

Grandpa wouldn’t do this to us. He loved us all equally. Jason remained silent, staring at his hands.

Mr. Peterson interjected firmly. Mr. Matthews was of sound mind when he updated his will six months ago. He was very clear about his wishes.

My mother’s face contorted with rage. Six months ago? When he was already sick. This proves it was manipulation.

The meeting dissolved into chaos after that. My mother threatened to contest the will. Craig made vague comments about family loyalty.

Rachel sobbed dramatically. Throughout it all, I sat in stunned silence, the weight of my grandfather’s trust pressing down on me. In the parking lot afterward, my mother cornered me against my car.

This is a simple fix. Amber, she said, her voice suddenly calm and reasonable. Just transfer everything to me and I’ll make sure everyone gets their fair share.

I looked into her eyes, so similar to mine in color, but lacking any warmth. I need time to process this, mom. What’s there to process? Her smile didn’t reach her eyes…