When my grandmother’s will was read, my siblings got jewelry and deeds; I got a plant, mocked as “potted pity.” During a move, a neighbor found a rusted key in its pot, wrapped in a handkerchief with my name. It unlocked a buried box of Grandma’s letters—her life, regrets, faith, and love, written just for me. One letter led to her old apartment, where a loose floorboard hid cash, a photo, and a younger image of my plant. With the money, I paid debts and opened Marigold & Vine, a bookstore named for her nickname for me. I hid her letters in books, and soon, notes of kindness filled the shelves, making the shop feel magical.
A man once recognized the plant, sharing how Grandma helped him when he was homeless, giving him a notebook to record kindness. He left it, filled with names and mercies, her name circled twice. I placed it on the “Goodness Shelf,” where stories and books pass freely. My siblings later saw the letters and admitted I’d inherited her true wealth. The plant still blooms yellow, stubborn like her. On tough days, I read her words. Some inheritances are diamonds; mine was a key in soil, a living plant, and love that endures.
