The will reading happened three days later in Mr. Collins’ law office downtown.
I didn’t expect much. Grandpa wasn’t rich. He’d worked his whole life. I figured he’d split what little he had evenly.
Mr. Collins revealed Grandpa had been very specific, and everything was legally binding.
But when he started reading the will, nothing made sense.
I didn’t expect much.
- Matthew got the house.
- Jake got Grandpa’s car.
- Kirk and Jessica each received $20,000.
“And to Angelica,” Mr. Collins said, looking at me, “your grandfather left you his personal lunchbox.”
For a second, I thought I heard him wrong.
But then he brought out that metal lunchbox with rusted corners and faded paint.
The same one Grandpa used to carry to work daily.
The room went quiet.
I thought I heard him wrong.
Then Jake laughed!
“You’ve got to be kidding!”
Jessica shook her head. “That’s… wow!”
I didn’t say anything, just sat there, silent and humiliated. Then I stood up and picked up the box.
Matthew smiled. “That box isn’t worth the hassle,” and the others chuckled.
I just took it and left in tears.
I just walked, and by the time I stopped, 20 minutes later, I was standing in the park.
“You’ve got to be kidding!”
Grandpa had brought me to this very same place in my childhood.
I sat down. Angry. Hurt. Exhausted.
I kept replaying it in my head.
The will, laughter, and the way Grandpa used to tell me I mattered.
“Why’d you do that?” I muttered under my breath.
I stared at the lunch box for a long time before opening the rusty latch with trembling fingers.
I lifted the lid and froze.
I kept replaying it in my head.
My hands started shaking uncontrollably as anger and hurt engulfed me.
Inside wasn’t food. There was a neatly folded stack of old receipts. Dozens of them, maybe more.
Underneath that was a small empty notebook.
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