I never imagined that the night I rushed my stepmother to the emergency room would be the last night I’d see her alive.
She’d collapsed in the kitchen, one hand gripping the counter, her speech slurred and eyes glassy with fear. I didn’t hesitate. I grabbed my keys, wrapped her in a coat, and sped through red lights, praying she’d make it. While the doctors worked on her, I called her daughter, Mia.
Her response still rings in my ears.
“Call me when she’s gone,” Mia said flatly. Then she hung up.
Two days later, my stepmom passed away.
At the reading of the will, Mia arrived dressed in black designer clothes, her face dry and composed. She inherited everything—my stepmom’s savings, her apartment, her jewelry, even the furniture. When the lawyer turned to me, he handed me a single item.
An old potted plant.
That was it.
I didn’t feel angry. I truly wasn’t after her money. That plant had sat in the corner of the living room for years. I’d watered it, trimmed it, talked to it during lonely nights. It felt… fitting.
Mia didn’t agree.
She smirked as we left the office. “She used you all those years,” she said cruelly. “Free care, free help. Hope it teaches you something.”
I said nothing. I picked up the plant and went home.
The next morning, my phone rang nonstop.
It was Mia—crying, shaking, barely able to speak.
“You need to come over,” she sobbed. “Now.”
When I arrived, she was pale and frantic. She told me she’d remembered something our stepmom once said—that her most precious possessions were hidden somewhere safe. Mia had searched the apartment all night and found nothing.
Then she looked at the plant.
Confused, I took it home and carefully lifted it from the pot.
At the bottom was a sealed plastic bag.
Inside were gold coins—old, heavy, and unmistakably valuable. An inheritance from my stepmom’s great-grandmother, meant only for emergencies. She’d never needed them. Never mentioned them.
Those coins were worth far more than the cash and apartment Mia inherited.