All my life, I lived in my sister Stacy’s shadow. No matter how hard I worked, I was never enough for our parents. She was the golden child, the athlete, the favorite. The only person who truly saw me was my grandmother. She gave me love, support, and a reason to believe I mattered. With her help, I earned a scholarship and built a life of my own. I eventually married Henry, despite my grandmother’s warning that something felt off about him.

While pregnant, I found out the unthinkable — Henry was cheating on me with Stacy. I walked in on them in my own bed. Their betrayal shattered me. When I confronted them, Stacy laughed and called herself better than me. Henry insulted me, denied the baby was his, and demanded a divorce. I packed my things and left. My grandmother welcomed me with open arms, just like she always had.

Months later, she revealed heartbreaking news: she was terminally ill. I stayed by her side, caring for her, working from home, cherishing every moment. She passed away before my baby was born, but not before leaving me everything — her house, savings, and a note: “For always being there.”

At her funeral, my family was furious about the will. But I stayed calm — my baby came first. Then, one day, Stacy showed up at my door, broke and begging for help. Her life had fallen apart.

I refused. I had nothing left to give her.

My grandmother had given me everything I truly needed — strength, love, and freedom.