The lawyer arrived shortly after.
He didn’t sit down.
“There is very little to discuss,” he said calmly.
That’s when the truth landed like a bomb.
Grandma had left nothing to anyone present.
The outrage was immediate.
Shouting, insults, anger.
They demanded to know who received the house and the money.
The lawyer refused to say.
Then someone noticed Berta.
“What about the dog?” my aunt asked.
“Put her down,” my mother said without hesitation.
I snapped.
I refused.
Grandma loved that dog more than anything.
No one wanted Berta.
So I took her.
Even though my lease didn’t allow pets.
Even though my rent went up.
Even though I had no idea how I’d manage.
Days passed.
Grief settled in quietly.
Then one night, after a long shift, there was a knock at my door.
It was my mother.
She accused me of stealing the inheritance.
She screamed that I owed her everything.
I told her the truth.
All I had inherited was a dog.
She didn’t believe me.
She left furious.
That night, as Berta curled up beside me, I noticed something unusual on her collar.
An engraved address.
A number: 153.
