Then Grandma got sick.
At first, she just said she felt tired more often. Then came a fall in the kitchen. Then a hospital stay. And then, far too quickly, a small bedroom in a local hospice.
Zack visited exactly twice. Both times he brought coffee—for himself—and some excuse about traffic or work or whatever had prevented him from coming sooner
Grandma never complained. She squeezed his hand like his mere presence was the greatest gift imaginable.
She passed away on a clear Tuesday afternoon. I was sitting beside her bed, reading one of her favorite mystery novels—the kind where the killer always turns out to be the neighbor with the perfect lawn.
Bailey lay curled on the floor near her bed. When her breathing stopped, he slowly lifted his head and stared at her for a long moment. Then he made a soft, broken sound I didn’t know a dog was capable of making.
I stayed through the paperwork. Through the phone calls. Through the awkward condolences from neighbors carrying casseroles.
Bailey stayed too, pressed tightly against my ankles as if he feared I might disappear if he let me out of his sight.
At night, he refused to sleep unless my hand rested on him. His fur grew damp with my tears.
So when Mr. Harper, Grandma’s lawyer, called to schedule the will reading, I already knew I would be there—with Bailey.
I didn’t think much about what I would inherit. Grandma had a modest home, some savings, maybe a life insurance policy. Nothing that suggested hidden wealth.
I assumed everything would simply be split between Zack and me.
Zack, however, walked into the lawyer’s office as if he were claiming a prize he had already spent three times in his imagination.
He wore a black designer tracksuit with glossy stripes, a flashy watch that caught the light every time he moved, and sunglasses—despite being indoors on a cloudy day.
The first thing he said to me was, “Try not to cry when you get Grandma’s spoon collection, okay?”
I rolled my eyes and focused on Bailey, who was half-hidden under my chair, trembling so hard that the metal legs rattled.
I scratched his neck and whispered, “We are fine, buddy, I promise,” even though my stomach felt twisted into knots.
Mr. Harper cleared his throat, adjusted his glasses, and began to read.
He started with small bequests—donations to the church, something for a neighbor, something for my mom.
Then he said, “To my grandson, Zack, I leave one $100,000 in cash and bonds, my antique china set, my jewelry, and all proceeds from the sale of my home.”
Zack leaned back like royalty claiming a throne. He folded his arms and shot me a smug sideways grin.
“See?” he whispered. “Told you Grandma knew who the real favorite was.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat and continued rubbing Bailey’s ear.
Mr. Harper turned a page.
“To my granddaughter, Lily, I leave my beloved dog, Bailey.”
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