At Grandpa’s funeral, 18-year-old Dahlia felt completely alone as her family argued bitterly over the meager $1 each had been left. The house was heavy with resentment—not mourning. Grandpa had been the only one who truly saw her, but to the rest, she was just the “spare kid.”
I stood by the grave, clutching a single red rose amid the white daisies everyone else placed—just like Grandpa always made me feel, unique.
Behind me, voices rose. Aunt Nancy raged about the tiny inheritance, Uncle Vic called Grandpa spiteful, and Mom accused me of getting a secret share. “What did he leave you, Dahlia?” she demanded.
“I got the same as you,” I said quietly. Mom pressed, hinting maybe Grandpa had told me something.
That night, memories of Grandpa’s playful tales about hidden treasure resurfaced. “One day, kiddo, I’m leaving you a real treasure,” he used to say.
Later, a stranger approached and handed me a folded note, whispering, “Don’t let your family see this.” My heart pounded as I read: “111 locker — Southern Railway Station.”
Grandpa’s “treasure” was real.
The next day, I sneaked out, heading to the bustling station. Finding locker 111, I used the taped key and opened it. Inside was a duffel bag filled with stacks of cash—and a note from Grandpa:
“For my beloved granddaughter. Everything I saved is yours now. Live free, kiddo. The rest of the family may not see your worth, but I always have.”
Tears blurred my vision. This wasn’t just money—it was my freedom. Grandpa had given me a way out from the family that never truly cared.
I zipped the bag, left the house without looking back, and booked a ticket to anywhere but here.
For the first time in a long while, I smiled. I was free.
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