So, I sold it. The buyer, Ben, seemed like a good guy—enthusiastic about fixing up the place. We shook hands, and just like that, the house, along with its memories, was no longer mine.
A week later, I received a letter via courier. To my surprise, it was in my grandfather’s handwriting. The paper was yellowed with age, as if it had been sitting, waiting for the right moment to be delivered. My hands shook as I opened it. The message was simple but intriguing: “Check the basement of the house.”
Without wasting time, I called Ben. “Hey, it’s Alex. I need to come by the house—there’s something I need to check in the basement.”
Ben, a little puzzled but still friendly, replied, “Sure, come over. The basement’s just as you left it.”
When I arrived, I barely recognized the house. Ben had already started making improvements. The yard was cleared, and the house had a fresh coat of paint. He greeted me at the door, and we headed straight to the basement. It was still dimly lit and musty, filled with cobwebs and old furniture. Ben watched me search, amused but curious.
“You sure your grandfather wasn’t just messing with you?” he joked.
I was beginning to wonder the same thing. But then, I noticed a loose brick in the wall. Behind it was a small, dusty box containing old letters and a key. Ben peered over my shoulder. “What do you think that key unlocks?” he asked.
“I’m not sure,” I replied. But I had a feeling it was important. After thanking Ben, I took the box and key home, determined to figure out the mystery.
The next day, I returned to the house with a plan. As Ben opened the door, surprised to see me again, I made a bold offer. “Ben, I’d like to buy the house back.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Really? I thought you said it was a burden.”
Taking a deep breath, I explained. “At first, I thought selling was the right choice. But after receiving my grandfather’s letter, I’ve realized this house means more than I ever thought. It’s not just a building; it’s part of my family’s history, a legacy I need to preserve. I can’t let it go.”
Ben considered for a moment. “Well, I’ve already put in a lot of work. You’d have to offer more than what you sold it for.”
I knew this wouldn’t be easy. “How about five grand more?”
Ben shook his head. “Not enough. The market’s good, and I could sell it for a profit. How about twenty grand more?”
My heart sank. Twenty grand was a lot. But I couldn’t lose the house now. “Deal,” I said, though it hurt to agree.
Over the next week, I finalized the paperwork to buy the house back. During this time, I met Clara, a local historian with a passion for old homes. Over coffee, I shared the story of my grandfather’s house, and she was instantly intrigued.
“Your grandfather sounds incredible,” Clara said. “If you ever need help restoring the house or researching its history, I’d love to assist.”
I gratefully accepted her offer. Clara’s enthusiasm breathed new life into my project. Together, we spent hours sifting through old documents, photos, and memories, piecing together the story of the house and its significance.
Finally, with the house back in my name, I returned to the basement, key in hand. Moving aside an old wardrobe, I discovered a hidden door. The key fit perfectly. Behind the door was a small room, and in the center was a modest chest. My heart raced as I opened it, expecting treasure.
Instead, I found a letter in my grandfather’s familiar handwriting and an old poker chip.
The letter read: “I knew you would sell the house, you fool! I always taught you to honor your ancestors and remember your roots. Yet, you sold it off without a second thought. Let this be a lesson to you.”
At the bottom, in a playful tone, it said: “P.S. I put something in here, so here’s an old poker chip—worthless! Consider it a lucky charm.”
I sat there, the letter in hand, disappointed at first, but then understanding hit me. My grandfather, ever the trickster, had orchestrated this whole experience to teach me a valuable lesson. The house wasn’t just about property or money—it was about honoring the past and valuing what truly matters.
With a renewed sense of purpose, I decided to keep the house and turn it into a family retreat. What I once saw as a burden now felt like a treasure—a connection to my roots and a place where future memories would be made.
Over the months that followed, the house underwent a transformation. With Clara’s help, I restored it, blending its old charm with fresh beginnings. The house, once dilapidated, became a place of laughter and love—a symbol of family heritage.
As the final touches were added, Clara and I grew closer, spending more and more time together. The house wasn’t just a part of my past anymore—it had become a symbol of our future, a place filled with love, memories, and the lessons my grandfather had so cleverly imparted.
In the end, my grandfather had left me far more than a house. He’d left me a legacy, a lesson about family, roots, and the importance of holding on to the things that truly matter.
My Selfish Sister Stayed by Mom’s Side When She Fell Ill, but Everything Changed after the Doctor Shared Mom’s Last Words – Story of the Day
When Mom fell ill, my sister suddenly became the perfect daughter. She moved in with Mom and kept me away, claiming she was taking care of everything. But I knew my sister too well. Her motives were never pure. I couldn’t stop her, but everything changed when the doctor gave me Mom’s final note.
I never understood how such different children could grow up in the same family. Not until my sister and I became adults. Our mom raised us by herself, and the older I got, the more I realized how hard it was for her.
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I remember the tiny apartment we lived in when I was little. It was always cold in the winter, and I could hear the wind whistling through the cracks in the windows. Mom worked two jobs just to keep a roof over our heads, but it was never enough.
Sometimes, there wasn’t much food in the house. I still remember the nights when our neighbor, Mrs. Jenkins, brought us dinner.
She would kindly smile as she handed over a steaming pot of soup or a plate of pasta.
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I didn’t understand back then how much it meant. I only knew that I wasn’t hungry anymore.
But I noticed how Mom never ate with us. She would sit quietly, pretending she wasn’t hungry, but I knew the truth.
She gave everything she had to us. Over time, though, things got better. Mom found a better job, and slowly, we climbed out of poverty.
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She saved enough to move us into a nicer house, and eventually, Samira and I went to college.
But Samira didn’t remember those hard times the way I did. She was too young to understand the struggles Mom faced.
Maybe that’s why she turned out the way she did. How should I put it? A little selfish and carefree.
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Even after she finished college, she didn’t want to work. She kept asking Mom for money and spent it like it would never run out.
But things took a turn for the worse. One day, Mom called me and asked me to come over.
“Is everything okay?” I asked.
“Yes, yes, I just need to talk to you,” Mom replied.
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Her words echoed in my head as I drove to her house after work. I felt uneasy. Mom never called me like that. When I arrived, the front door was open, so I walked in.
“Mom?” I called out.
“I’m in the kitchen, honey,” she called back.
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I walked in and saw her sitting at the table with a cup of tea. Her hands rested on the table, but they looked tired. Her eyes, usually bright, seemed dull.
“What happened? What did you want to talk about?” I asked as I sat down.
Mom took a deep breath. “I went to the doctor today. Unfortunately, I have bad news,” she said softly.
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My heart pounded. “Why? What’s wrong?”
“My heart,” Mom said quietly. “They gave me a year, at best.”
The words hit me like a brick. “Isn’t there anything that can be done? I’ll pay whatever it takes, just tell me,” I said, my voice shaking.
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“A year is the most I’ll get with treatment. Without it, I might not even make it two months,” Mom said.
“No, no, this can’t be true,” I whispered. Tears filled my eyes.
“But it’s true,” Mom said. “It looks like all the stress and overwork didn’t do me any good.”
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I couldn’t hold back, so I moved closer and hugged her. “We’ll get through this, Mom. I’ll be here with you.”
“I know,” Mom said softly, stroking my hair like she used to when I was little. “Just don’t tell Samira anything for now.”
“Why not? She’ll keep asking you for money when you need it for treatment,” I said.
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“She’s living off her new boyfriend right now, so we can be calm for a while,” Mom replied.
I shook my head. “This is wrong.”
“I’ll tell her myself when the time is right,” Mom said.
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Mom told Samira everything a month after our conversation. Samira had come over to ask for money again after breaking up with her boyfriend.
After talking to Mom, Samira came straight to me. She didn’t even knock. She walked in like she owned the place and sat on my couch.
“I don’t want you visiting Mom,” Samira said.
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“Are you out of your mind? Mom is sick. I’ll visit her. Someone needs to help her,” I said. I couldn’t believe she was saying this.
“I know why you’re so concerned about her — to get all her inheritance for yourself. But that won’t happen,” Samira said.
“Are you serious? I don’t care about the money. I want to help Mom,” I said. “Or are you judging everyone by yourself?”
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Samira rolled her eyes. “I know that’s not true. Mom always loved me more because she gave me more money. So now, you want to get something after she’s gone,” she said.
“That’s so stupid if that’s really what you think. I’ll keep visiting Mom. Someone needs to help her,” I said firmly.
“Don’t worry about that. I’ve already planned everything. I’m moving in with Mom and taking care of her,” Samira said.
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“You? Since when are you so caring? You’ve never cared about anyone but yourself,” I said.
“That’s not true. I’ve always cared about Mom, and now she needs me. So don’t even try coming over. I won’t let you in,” Samira said.
She stood up, grabbed her bag, and left without another word. I stared at the door after she was gone.
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I couldn’t believe how selfish Samira was. I knew she was doing it for herself. Only for herself.
But as it turned out, she wasn’t joking. Samira didn’t let me see Mom, always coming up with excuses like, “Mom is sleeping,” “Mom doesn’t feel well,” or “Mom went to the doctor.”
So, I texted Mom and asked her to let me know when Samira wouldn’t be home so I could visit.
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One afternoon, Mom texted that Samira had gone to the mall and I could come over. I stopped by the grocery store to get some supplies and headed straight to Mom’s.
When I arrived, Mom was lying on the couch, watching TV. She looked tired, but her eyes lit up when she saw me.
“How are you feeling?” I asked as I stepped closer.
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“Not too bad. I’m managing,” Mom said with a weak smile.
“I brought you some groceries,” I said, placing the bag on the floor. “I got your favorite tea and some fresh fruit.”
“Thank you, honey,” Mom said, but her face grew serious. “Why haven’t you been visiting me? Samira said you didn’t want to because I’d become a burden.”
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My heart stopped. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “She said what?!” I was outraged. “I didn’t come because Samira wouldn’t let me. She always had an excuse. As soon as I had the chance, I came,” I said.
“I see,” Mom replied.
“How is it with Samira? Does she help?” I asked.
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“Yes, yes. She’s by my side almost all the time. She cooks, cleans, and brings me medicine,” Mom said. “I think my illness has changed her for the better,” she added.
“Yeah, right,” I muttered under my breath. “And do you have enough money?” I asked, trying to change the subject.
“For now, yes, although Samira spends a lot. I’m afraid we won’t have enough for the medicine soon,” Mom said, her voice filled with concern.
For illustration purposes only. | Source: Midjourney
“Don’t worry about that. I’ll talk to the doctor and take care of everything,” I said firmly.
“Alright, thank you,” Mom said with a tired smile.
I stayed with her for a while longer. We talked about small things. I didn’t want to leave, but Mom said she was tired and wanted to go to bed. I helped her to her room, guiding her gently.
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“Nicole,” Mom softly said when she lay down. “I’ve lived a long life, and I understand everything.”
I just nodded. Her words didn’t make sense to me, but I thought she was just tired.
I put away the groceries and quietly left. But I didn’t go home. I couldn’t. I drove straight to the hospital.
For illustration purposes only. | Source: Midjourney
I knocked on Dr. Miller’s office door, and after hearing, “Come in!” I entered.
“Hello, I’m the daughter of one of your patients, Martha…”
“Oh, you must be Nicole,” said Dr. Miller, not even letting me finish Mom’s full name. “Have a seat. Martha talked a lot about you.”
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I sat down across from Dr. Miller. “I want to talk about Mom’s treatment. From now on, send all the bills to me, for anything,” I said.
“I thought Samira was paying for everything,” Dr. Miller said, his eyebrows raised.
“Yes, with Mom’s money, but she spends a lot too. I don’t want Mom worrying about finances,” I said.
“Alright, we can arrange that,” Dr. Miller said with a nod.
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I felt some relief knowing I could finally help Mom without interference. But I knew this was just the beginning.
When I started receiving the hospital bills, I was shocked by the amounts. Each bill was higher than I expected.
I couldn’t believe Mom had enough money for all of it, considering how much Samira was spending.
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I wondered where the money was coming from. I knew Mom’s savings were running low.
With each passing month, Mom’s condition worsened. Her strength faded, and she spent more time in bed.
She had to be hospitalized, and I was finally able to visit her whenever I wanted. Samira couldn’t stop me from going to the hospital.
For illustration purposes only. | Source: Midjourney
I spent every evening by Mom’s side. I read to her, held her hand, and made sure she was comfortable.
Samira watched me with resentment. Trying to win Mom’s attention, she practically moved into the hospital and never left her side. But I knew her reasons were not pure.
One evening, Samira came up to me while I was sitting with Mom. Her expression was serious.
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“Can we talk?” she asked.
I followed her into the hallway. I crossed my arms and waited.
“Look, Mom’s money is running out. I don’t know how much longer it’ll last,” Samira said. She avoided my eyes.
“I’m paying all the medical bills. How can the money be gone?” I asked.
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“Well, there are other expenses too. Groceries, utilities… I need money to live too,” Samira said. Her voice was softer now, almost like she was trying to make me feel guilty.
“That’s the problem,” I said firmly. “You spend it all on yourself. I’m not going to support you.” I turned and went back into Mom’s room.
A few days after that conversation, I got a call from the hospital. My heart sank as I answered. Mom was gone.
For illustration purposes only. | Source: Midjourney
I was devastated. I rushed to the hospital, my hands trembling. When I arrived, Samira and her lawyer were already there.
“Since I took care of Mom, all the inheritance goes to me,” Samira said instead of greeting me. Then, her lawyer handed me a will.
I shoved the will back into his hands. “Mom just died, and you’re thinking about money?!” I yelled at Samira.
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“I don’t want any conflicts later,” she said, her tone flat.
“You’re unbelievable,” I said and walked away.
I went straight to Dr. Miller’s office. As soon as he saw me, his serious expression softened.
“I’m so sorry. Your mother loved you more than anyone,” he said gently.
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“Thank you,” I replied, barely holding back tears.
“Before she passed, your mom gave me something to give you,” Dr. Miller said. He took an envelope out of his drawer and handed it to me. Mom’s handwriting on the envelope read: “For My True Daughter.”
“Do you mind if I step outside to read this?” I asked.
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I stepped out of his office and sat on one of the chairs in the hallway. My hands were shaking as I held the envelope.
I took a deep breath and opened it. Inside was a will. I read through it carefully, and my heart pounded.
It was more recent than the one Samira had, and it was valid. Mom had left everything to me.
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There was also an account I didn’t know about. The balance was more than I had ever imagined. She had thought of everything.
A small note was attached to the will. I recognized Mom’s handwriting instantly.
I told you I understand everything. I can see real care and distinguish it from selfish motives. That’s why I’m leaving everything to you, Nicole.
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I hope you keep that kindness and humanity in your heart. I love you, Mom.
Tears filled my eyes as I read her words. I covered my face and cried. Even after her death, Mom had protected me.
I felt a wave of gratitude. I didn’t know what lay ahead, but I was certain I would honor Mom’s memory. I would live how she had lived — with love, kindness, and strength.
For illustration purposes only. | Source: Midjourney
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