I got sick. At 78, that’s not surprising. The doctor used words like “frail” and “monitor closely,” but I knew what he really meant: The clock is ticking, Eleanor.
I lived alone in the sprawling estate my late husband, Arthur, had built for us forty years ago. It was too big for one old woman, filled with dusty rooms and echoes of better days. Lonely and frightened by the diagnosis, I called my whole family together. I have a son, Robert, and a daughter, Clara. We rarely saw each other anymore. Robert was always “too busy” with his failing investments, and Clara… well, Clara only called when she needed a bill paid.
But I hoped this time would be different. I hoped that the news of my illness would spark a little warmth, a little nostalgia. I just wanted to be a mother again, not a bank.
They arrived in their expensive cars, looking impatient. Dinner was a disaster. The roast was perfect, but the conversation was ice cold. They checked their watches. They texted under the table. They asked about the upkeep of the house rather than my health.
“It’s really deteriorating, Mother,” Robert said, eyeing the peeling wallpaper. “The market value must be dropping by the day.”
“And the garden,” Clara added, sipping her wine. “It’s a jungle out there. It’s embarrassing.”
After dinner, feeling defeated and exhausted, I told them I was going to bed. I walked slowly up the grand staircase, my cane clicking against the wood. But halfway down the hallway, I stopped to catch my breath. That’s when I heard voices drifting up from the dining room.
I shouldn’t have listened. But I did.
My son’s voice dropped to a frantic whisper. “If she hasn’t rewritten the will, we get everything 50/50, right? I need that cash, Clara. I’m in deep.”
Then I heard my daughter yell, sharp and angry, “Keep your voice down! If Mom suspects anything, she’ll donate it all to those stray cats she loves so much. We just have to play nice for a few more months.”
I went pale. I leaned against the wall, clutching my chest. Had I ever truly known my children? They were vultures, circling, waiting for me to stop moving so they could pick the bones clean.
I didn’t sleep that night. I sat by the window, watching the moon rise over the overgrown garden. Sadness turned to anger. And then, anger turned into clarity. I picked up the phone and called my lawyer, Mr. Henderson. We spoke for an hour.
The next morning, I walked into the kitchen. They were drinking my coffee, looking hungover and bored. I summoned a smile I didn’t feel.
“I have an announcement,” I said, my voice steady. “I know I haven’t been the easiest mother, and the house has fallen into disrepair. I’ve been thinking about what you said last night about the value of the estate.”
Their ears perked up.
“I have decided to give you your inheritance early,” I lied. “But…”
“But what?” Robert asked, leaning forward, greed lighting up his eyes.
“But only under ONE CONDITION!” I slammed my hand on the table. “I have hidden a small, silver key somewhere on this property. It opens a safe deposit box at the bank that contains the deeds, the bonds, and access to all my liquid assets—roughly ten million dollars.”
Clara gasped. Robert looked like he might faint.
“Where is it?” they demanded in unison.
“I honestly don’t remember exactly,” I said, feigning senility. “I hid it years ago. It could be taped behind a loose board, buried in the garden, or tucked away in the attic. To find it, you will have to turn this house upside down. And while you are looking… you might as well clean.”
The hunt began.
For the next week, I witnessed a miracle. My lazy, entitled children worked harder than they had in their entire lives.
Robert, in his Italian loafers, was on his hands and knees scrubbing the hardwood floors, checking every crack for a silver key. He sanded the banisters. He painted the fence that wrapped around the three-acre property. He was sweating, cursing, and miserable, but the thought of the money kept him moving.
Clara was out in the garden. She pulled weeds, trimmed the hedges, and planted new flowers, digging through the dirt with manic energy, hoping to strike metal. She cleaned out the garage, organizing boxes that hadn’t been touched since 1995.
I sat on the porch, drinking lemonade, watching them.
“Find anything yet?” I’d call out.
“Not yet, Mother!” they’d yell back, breathless.
By the end of the week, the house was transformed. The floors gleamed. The windows sparkled. The garden looked like a slice of paradise. It was the home Arthur and I had loved, restored to its former glory.
On Sunday evening, Robert and Clara came to me in the living room. They were covered in dirt, exhausted, and blistered.
“We’ve looked everywhere, Mom,” Robert said, his voice cracking. “Every inch. We cleaned the gutters, the basement, the attic. There is no key.”
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“We are sure! Is this a joke?” Clara screamed.
I stood up, looking at the beautiful home around me. “You missed one spot,” I said softly.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out a small silver key.
They froze. “You had it… the whole time?” Robert whispered, his face turning red.
“I did,” I said. “And I’m glad you worked so hard. The house looks beautiful. It’s finally ready for the market.”
“The market?” Clara asked. “But… the inheritance…”
“Oh, that,” I smiled. “While you were painting the fence on Tuesday, I had Mr. Henderson transfer the ten million dollars to the Children’s Hospital and the local animal shelter. The donation has already been processed.”
Silence. Absolute, deafening silence.
“You… you gave it away?” Robert choked out.
“I gave you the opportunity to earn it,” I said sternly. “But you didn’t look for the key to help me. You looked for it to help yourselves. However, I am not heartless. I am not selling the house.”
I placed the key on the table.
“I’m leaving the house to both of you. It is now in pristine condition, thanks to your hard work. You can live here together. But since there is no money left for utilities or taxes… I suggest you both get jobs immediately to keep the lights on.”
I picked up my purse and walked toward the door.
“Where are you going?” Clara cried.
“To a retirement community,” I said, not looking back. “I hear the bingo prizes are excellent, and the people there actually enjoy my company.”
