An old potted plant.
That was it.
I didn’t feel angry. I truly wasn’t after her money. That plant had sat in the corner of the living room for years. I’d watered it, trimmed it, talked to it during lonely nights. It felt… fitting.
Mia didn’t agree.
She smirked as we left the office. “She used you all those years,” she said cruelly. “Free care, free help. Hope it teaches you something.”
I said nothing. I picked up the plant and went home.
The next morning, my phone rang nonstop.
It was Mia—crying, shaking, barely able to speak.
“You need to come over,” she sobbed. “Now.”
When I arrived, she was pale and frantic. She told me she’d remembered something our stepmom once said—that her most precious possessions were hidden somewhere safe. Mia had searched the apartment all night and found nothing.
Then she looked at the plant.
Confused, I took it home and carefully lifted it from the pot.
At the bottom was a sealed plastic bag.
