So, I didn’t. I cobbled together scholarships, worked forty-hour weeks alongside a full-time course load, and managed it all myself. On my master’s graduation day, the seats reserved for them were predictably empty.

But as I posed for photos with friends, my phone rang. It was Mr. Samuel Pierce, the long-time attorney for my maternal grandparents. His voice was a deep, steady anchor in the swirl of my emotions. “Emily,” he said, “your grandparents left their entire estate to you. We need to meet.”

I froze. It wasn’t about the money—I had no idea of the amount—but the profound weight of their trust. My grandparents, Harold and Margaret Lewis, were my true north. Their seaside home, a red-brick haven with a wide porch overlooking the ocean, was my sanctuary. They nurtured my spirit with stories, baked apple pies, and the simple, priceless gift of listening—something my own home rarely offered. In their final years, I was the one who managed their doctor’s appointments and paid their bills. My parents and Ashley were visitors, appearing for holiday photo-ops before vanishing again. This inheritance wasn’t favoritism; it was recognition.