When I spotted my brother Maverick cruising through town in a flashy red convertible, alarm bells rang. He could barely afford gas, let alone a luxury car. I had no idea it was tied to a betrayal involving our late grandmother — and me. My name’s Juniper, and though I left my hometown years ago, I came rushing back after finding out Gran had died… through a Facebook post. No one in my family bothered to tell me.

At her grave, Mr. Anderson, her neighbor, asked if I received the $20,000 she left me. I hadn’t. It became clear — Maverick had taken the money. My anger led me to his trailer, where karma had already paid a visit. The convertible? Totaled. Maverick? On crutches, bruised, and guilty.

As I confronted him, he admitted to spending the inheritance and promised to “pay me back.” But just then, Gran’s lawyer called. Turns out, Gran had prepared for this. She left everything else — her house, investments, and savings — to me in a trust. She knew my family, and she made sure I wouldn’t be left out.

I walked away from Maverick with the weight of betrayal lifting. For the first time, I didn’t feel like the forgotten one. Even in death, Gran made sure I was seen, valued, and protected.