After my grandmother died, my cousins fought over her belongings, grabbing anything of obvious value. I was given a small box containing a dull ring with a cloudy stone—something they dismissed as worthless. Still, I slipped it on, cherishing it simply because it had been hers.
I often wondered whether I should have wanted more from her estate, but the ring felt like a quiet connection to her. Then, yesterday, it slipped off while I was washing dishes. When it hit the sink, the stone cracked open. Horrified, I picked it up—only to find a tiny rolled note hidden inside.
In her familiar handwriting, my grandmother wrote that the ring had belonged to my grandfather, that the stone was actually a 2-carat diamond, and that she had disguised it so no one else would take it. “You were the only one who visited,” she wrote. “Love always.”
I sank to the floor in tears, overwhelmed not by the secret treasure, but by the love she had left for me—an inheritance far greater than anything my cousins had fought for.
