My grandfather, whom I was incredibly close to, passed away last month. When the will was read, I was stunned to learn that he had left everything to my sister—the car, his savings, and the small house. She had barely visited him, and I couldn’t understand how that made sense.

I asked her to divide it with me, since we were both his grandchildren and I believed there had to be some kind of mistake. But she only shook her head and said, “I can’t go against Grandpa’s wishes.”

A few months later, I slipped on my old coat and felt something in the pocket. It was a folded piece of paper. My heart froze when I recognized Grandpa’s handwriting. He must have tucked it there during his final days, when I was visiting him every single day.

With trembling hands, I opened it and read: “If you’re reading this, it means the lawyer followed my instructions. The will they read was only a placeholder. The official one, signed and notarized, leaves everything to you. I trust you to do what’s right with it, even if that means sharing. You were the one who never left my side.”

My hands shook as I folded the note again. The next morning, I went straight to the lawyer’s office. His eyes widened when I placed the note on his desk. After a moment, he unlocked a file drawer, took out a sealed envelope, and slid it toward me.

It was the real will. And it listed only one name—mine. Grandpa had left everything solely to me: his small house, his vintage car, and his savings. Along with it was his message, reminding me that the choice to share with my sister was entirely mine.

Now I’m torn. Part of me wants to honor the trust he placed in me by keeping things as he intended, especially since my sister never made the effort to be there for him. But another part of me worries that if I don’t share, I’ll carry that guilt for the rest of my life. The decision is mine—but it’s a weight I never expected to carry.