When I saw my brother Maverick cruising in a shiny red convertible, I knew something was off. My name is Juniper, and after four years away from my family, I thought I’d left the hurt behind. Growing up, I was the “spare,” always overshadowed by Maverick, the golden child. But Gran had always made me feel valued, sneaking me treats and listening to my stories.

Then came the day I found out she died — via a Facebook post. I felt anger and betrayal that my family hadn’t informed me. I flew home to visit her grave, needing closure. As I walked, I spotted Maverick in that flashy car, a stark contrast to his usual struggles. Something didn’t add up.

At the cemetery, I learned from Mr. Anderson, Gran’s friend, that she had left me $20,000 in her will. My heart sank; Maverick had stolen my inheritance. I confronted him at his trailer, finding him on crutches after a wreck. He confessed to “borrowing” the money, but I was done with his excuses.

Just then, I received a call from Gran’s lawyer, revealing that she had left her entire estate to me — the house, savings, everything. Gran had predicted Maverick’s betrayal and protected me even in death. I walked away from him, finally feeling like I mattered. Gran’s love had triumphed, and I was ready to reclaim my life.