When our dad passed, I thought I still had my home and family. Two weeks later, my sister Charlotte kicked me out, leaving me with just a couple of suitcases, my guitar, and Dad’s old watch. I felt like I’d lost everything—until I realized Dad had left me a way out.
Growing up, it was mostly Dad and me. Charlotte, eighteen years older, was always chasing something bigger. I stayed behind, helping Dad, living in the quiet routines that made our small life full. “You were my dawn,” he said.
At the will reading, Charlotte got the house; I got Dad’s battered watch. Days later, she threw me out. I called our lawyer, Matthew, who smiled knowingly. Dad had left me an inheritance in a safe deposit box—but Charlotte only got her share if she shared the house. The combination? Hidden in the scratches on Dad’s watch.
Charlotte later called, panicked over debts. I twirled the watchband. “Maybe I can help—but you did throw me out.”
Matthew helped me move into a tiny, bright studio. Walking past the old house later, I felt no guilt. Dad was still looking out for me, just differently.
