When my grandmother died, her house instantly turned into a war zone.
Relatives I hadn’t seen in years suddenly appeared, tearing through rooms, drawers, and cupboards, all hunting for one thing: her will.
I was the only one who didn’t search for papers or valuables.
Instead, I took her dog home.
At the time, I didn’t realize that Berta carried more than grief and loyalty.
She carried a secret no one else thought to look for.
If there was one thing capable of gathering my family under one roof, it was either money or death.
That day, unfortunately, they got both.
At the cemetery, I stood silently as Grandma’s coffin was lowered into the ground.
Berta tugged on her leash, whining softly, as if she wanted to follow her best friend underground.
Grandma used to joke that Berta was the only soul she trusted completely.
Looking at that loyal old dog, I believed her.
Grandma had always been an unusual woman.
She built her fortune from nothing, worked relentlessly, and believed struggle made people stronger.
She never handed money to her children or grandchildren.
Instead, she paid for everyone’s education and expected the rest to be earned the hard way.
