I thought my father’s will would secure my future. But when the lawyer read a name I didn’t recognize, everything changed. My grandmother’s fury was immediate. Who was Brenna, and why did my father leave her everything? What secret had been hidden all these years?
My life had always been controlled by rules. Every morning, a sharp voice echoed through the house.
“Sit up straight, Mona. Don’t slouch. A lady always keeps her composure.”
That was Loretta—my grandmother, my guardian, my shadow. After my mother passed away, she took over, molding me in her image. Everything had to be perfect—my grades, my posture, even the way I folded napkins. It was exhausting, but I tried. I always tried.
When my father died, Loretta quickly focused on what mattered most to her: control. But I remember the day everything unraveled. We sat in the lawyer’s office, the air heavy with the scent of old books and stale coffee. Loretta had already mapped out my future that morning.
“You’ll invest the money wisely, Mona,” she had said, her tone firm. “Your father worked hard for this. We must rebuild the family legacy.”
I believed her. She had always been so sure of everything, her plans so absolute. So, as we waited in that cold office, I was confident that my life was set in stone.
The lawyer adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat. “As per your father’s wishes,” he began, scanning the will, “his estate and all assets will go to Brenna.”
“Who?” The word escaped before I could stop it.
The lawyer looked up. “Brenna is your father’s other daughter.”
I felt the world tilt. “Sister? I… I have a sister?”
“Impossible!” Loretta’s voice sliced through the room. “This must be a mistake! My son wouldn’t leave everything to some stranger!”
“It’s no mistake, ma’am,” the lawyer said, flipping a page. “Your son was very clear in his instructions. Brenna inherits the house, accounts, and stocks.”
“What?” Loretta’s voice rose to a shriek. “You’re telling me that child—someone we don’t even know—takes it all?”
But I barely heard her. My thoughts swirled around a single truth: I had a sister. A sister I had never known. Loretta’s hand clamped onto mine, her grip cold and tight.
“We’ll fix this, Mona,” she hissed. “We’ll find this Brenna and make sure she does what’s right.”
I nodded, because disagreeing with Loretta had never been an option.
A few days later, following Grandma’s orders, I arrived at Brenna’s house. The small structure leaned slightly to one side, the paint peeling like sunburned skin. It was nothing like the polished, grand home I had grown up in.
Before I could knock, the front door creaked open, and Brenna stood there, smiling brightly. Her arms hung loosely at her sides, her fingers twisting together in a rhythm that seemed more instinct than thought.
“Hi!” she chirped. “I saw you coming. Did you park by the mailbox? It’s wobbly. I keep meaning to fix it, but…”
She trailed off, tapping the doorframe three times with her knuckles before looking back at me.
“Uh, yeah,” I answered awkwardly. “I’m Mona. Your sister.”
Her smile widened. “Come in! Watch the floorboard near the kitchen. It squeaks.”
Inside, the house smelled of earth and clay. The narrow hallway opened into a kitchen filled with half-finished pottery, jars of paint, and tools I didn’t recognize. Brenna rearranged a set of mismatched vases three times, muttering under her breath before nodding in satisfaction. Then she turned back to me, her eyes shining.
“You’re my sister.”
“Yes,” I said slowly. “Our father… he passed away recently.”
Her smile didn’t falter. “What’s it like? Having a dad?”
I hesitated. “It’s… hard to say. He was kind. He cared. We were friends.”
Brenna nodded, tracing patterns on the table. “I never met him. But I have his hands.” She held up her palms, streaked with dried clay. “Mom always said so. Big hands, like him.”
She was so open, so accepting. I had expected resentment, suspicion—anything but this quiet warmth.
“Dad left me a gift,” Brenna said suddenly.
“A gift?” I repeated.
“Yes. He called it that in the letter from the lawyer. Did he leave you a gift too?”
I hesitated. “Not really.”
“That’s strange. Everyone should get a gift.”
I forced a smile. “Maybe.”
“You should stay for a week,” she said, eyes bright. “You can tell me about him. What he was like. What he liked to eat. What his voice sounded like.”
“A week?” I blinked. “I don’t know if—”
“In return,” she interrupted, “I’ll share the gift. It’s only fair.”
Her fingers twisted together as she waited for my answer.
I swallowed hard. “Okay. A week.”
Brenna beamed. “Good. We can have pancakes. Only if you like them, though.”
That week at Brenna’s house felt like stepping into another world—one where expectations melted away. Breakfast wasn’t a carefully plated meal; it was bacon, eggs, and tea on paper plates.
“Easier this way,” Brenna said. “Less cleanup. More time for pottery.”
She had a way of saying things so directly, without the filters people usually used. It was strangely refreshing. I watched the small rituals that seemed to ground her—aligning plates on the porch rail, tapping objects a certain number of times.
On the third day, she handed me a lump of clay. “Try making something.”
My first attempt was a disaster, collapsing into a shapeless blob.
“It’s terrible,” I groaned.
“It’s not terrible,” Brenna said simply. “It’s just new. New things take time.”
Her patience amazed me. Even when I knocked over a finished vase, smearing it with paint, she didn’t get upset. She just cleaned it up, humming softly.
Then Loretta called.
“Mona, what are you waiting for?” her voice snapped through the phone. “She doesn’t know what to do with that kind of money. Convince her to sign it over. If persuasion doesn’t work, use her trust against her.”
I stayed silent. For the first time, I wasn’t sure I wanted to obey.
The next day, Loretta arrived unannounced, heels clicking on the uneven floor. Her sharp gaze swept over the pottery-strewn studio in disgust.
“This is where you’ve been hiding?” she sneered. “Mona, end this nonsense. She doesn’t deserve our family’s legacy.”
Brenna’s hands trembled as she whispered, “Gift, gift,” her fingers twisting at her apron.
I opened a cabinet, finding a stack of old letters. “These are from Brenna’s mother,” I murmured. “Did you know?”
Loretta’s face hardened. “I did what I had to! Do you think I’d let my son be trapped by some woman and her broken child?”
I turned to Brenna, my heart aching. “I love you, sis.”
Brenna brightened. “Do you want pancakes?”
I laughed. “Oh, I really do.”
As we ate on the porch, I realized—I wasn’t living for Loretta’s expectations anymore. I was living for us—Brenna and me.
