My life used to be governed by rules. Every morning, a strict voice echoed through the house: “Sit up straight, Mona. Don’t slouch. A lady always keeps her composure.” That was Loretta—my grandmother, my guardian, my shadow. After my mother died, she took over, raising me in her grand image. Everything had to be perfect: my grades, my posture, even the way I folded napkins. It was exhausting, but I always tried.
When my father passed away, Loretta quickly turned her focus to control. I remember sitting in the lawyer’s office, the air smelling of stale coffee. “You’ll invest the money wisely, Mona,” she had told me, already outlining how we would rebuild the family’s legacy. I believed her. Loretta’s plans were always infallible.
“As per your father’s wishes,” the lawyer said, glancing at the will, “his estate and money will go to Brenna.”
“Who!?” The word escaped my lips.
The lawyer paused. “Brenna is your father’s other daughter.”
“Sister? I… I have a sister?”
“Impossible!” Loretta’s sharp voice ricocheted off the walls. “This must be a mistake! My son couldn’t leave everything to some stranger!”
“It’s no mistake, ma’am,” the lawyer countered. “Your son provided clear instructions. Brenna inherits the house, accounts, and stocks.”
I barely heard them. A sister I never knew existed. Loretta’s hand gripped mine. “We’ll fix this, Mona. We’ll find this Brenna and make sure she does what’s right.” Defying Loretta had never been an option, so I nodded.
Following Grandma’s instructions, I arrived at Brenna’s house a few days later. The small building leaned slightly to one side, its paint flaking. The door creaked open before I even knocked. Brenna stood there, smiling wide, her fingers twisting together in a rhythmic instinct.
“Hi!” she said, her voice bright. “I saw you coming. Did you park by the mailbox? It’s wobbly.” She tapped the doorframe three times with her knuckles.
“I’m Mona. Your sister.”
“Come in! Watch the floorboard near the kitchen. It squeaks.”
Inside, the house smelled of clay. The kitchen was dominated by a workbench covered in pottery and tools. Brenna rearranged a set of vases three times, muttering under her breath before nodding in satisfaction.
“You’re my sister,” she said, turning back to me.
“Yes,” I said slowly. “Our father… He passed away recently.”
Her smile didn’t falter. “What’s it like? Having a dad?”
“He was kind. He cared. We were friends.”
She nodded, her fingers twitching. “I never met him. But I have his hands.” She held up her palms, showing traces of clay. “Mom always said so. Big hands, like him.” Her sincerity was disarming. I’d expected resentment, but she radiated quiet acceptance.
“Dad left me a gift,” Brenna said. “He called it that in the letter. Did he leave you a gift too?”
I hesitated, Loretta’s biting words ringing in my ears. “Not really.”
“That’s strange. Everyone should get a gift. You should stay for a week,” Brenna suggested. “You can tell me about him. In return, I’ll share the gift. It’s only fair.”
“Okay,” I said. “A week.”
That week felt like a parallel universe where expectations melted away. Breakfast wasn’t a sleek latte; it was bacon and eggs served on paper plates. “Easier this way,” Brenna said. “Time saved is time for pottery.”
She had a way of saying things directly, without filters. But her rituals—resetting plates on the porch rail to ensure they were aligned—told a story of a mind that worked differently. We walked to the lake barefoot. She would pause to touch leaves or rearrange stones. These actions seemed as necessary to her as breathing.
In her studio, the air was earthy. She handed me a lump of clay. “Try making something.” My first attempt was a disaster. “It’s terrible,” I groaned.
“It’s not terrible,” Brenna said, gently reshaping the clay. “It’s just new. New things take time.” Even when I spilled water and smeared her work, she didn’t scold me. She just cleaned it.
Just as I started to relax, Loretta’s calls became more frequent. “Mona, what are you waiting for? This isn’t a vacation! She’s naïve. Convince her to sign it over. Use her trust if you have to.” Her words stung. They felt wrong in Brenna’s world.
The following day, Loretta arrived unannounced. Her heels clicked sharply on the uneven floor. “How can you stand this mess, Mona?” she snapped. She turned to Brenna. “You have no right to what’s been given to you.”
Brenna froze, her hands trembling as she rearranged vases, muttering, “Gift, gift,” under her breath.
“Mona, end this nonsense,” Loretta demanded. “She’s not like us.”
“Gift!” Brenna said louder, pointing toward a small cabinet. I opened it and found a stack of old letters addressed to my father.
“What are those?” Loretta demanded.
“Letters from Brenna’s mother,” I said, flipping through them. “Did you know?”
Loretta paled, then hardened. “I did what I had to! Do you think I’d let some woman trap my son with a broken child? When she came looking for him, I told her to stay away. I refused to let her and her daughter become part of this family.”
Her words were cruel. Brenna clung to the table, her eyes wide. In that moment, the “gift” my father left wasn’t just the money or the house. It was the truth. He had known about Brenna and had spent his final act ensuring she was cared for, far away from Loretta’s “perfection.”
I looked at my grandmother, the woman who had groomed me to be a cold extension of herself, and then at my sister, who was whole in a way Loretta could never understand. I didn’t need to reclaim anything for Loretta. I was exactly where I was meant to be.
