I’m 90, widowed, and tired of being forgotten.
After my husband died, the house went quiet. Calls slowed. Invitations were met with, “Sorry, Grandma, I’m busy.” So I made a plan.
I told each of my five grandchildren the same thing: they’d inherit $2 million — if they visited me every week. And it had to stay secret.
Every one of them agreed.
At first, it felt wonderful having them back. But the differences appeared quickly. Some rushed in and out, eyes on their phones, counting minutes. Conversations became chores.
Except Susan.
Susan arrived every Monday with hugs, cooked meals, and real questions. She cleaned without asking, told me about her children, her worries, her dreams.
After three months, I called them all together.
“I lied,” I said. “I promised each of you the inheritance. I wanted to see who truly cared.”
They exploded. “Who gets the money?”
Then I told them there was no money.
They walked out furious.
All except Susan.
She held me and asked if I needed help.
That’s when I told the truth: the money was real. And it would go to her.
She shook her head. “Put it in a trust for the kids. I never came for money, Gran. I came for you.”
She still visits every Monday.
Because love, when it’s real, doesn’t need a price tag.