When Leonard’s will demanded our family live together for a year, I thought the hardest part would be sharing a bathroom with my mother-in-law. I was wrong.
The rules were strict: daily dinners, no extended absences, and a stranger named Morrison watching our every move. At first, it felt like a bizarre reality show. Then the cracks started showing.
Evelyn, my mother-in-law, had always been calculating, but now she was playing chess with our lives. She whispered to my daughter about “secrets,” hinted at betrayal, and watched me like she was waiting for me to slip up.
Then, one night, I caught her in her room with Morrison.
“You’ll get your share once Jack is out of the picture,” she told him.
My blood ran cold. Jack—my sweet, fiery son—wasn’t Thomas’s biological child. Thomas had known since the day we met, but Evelyn had twisted that truth into a weapon.
I stormed in. “You’d really tear this family apart for money?”
Evelyn didn’t deny it. “Leonard’s fortune belongs to blood relatives. Not mistakes.”
I wanted to scream. Instead, I bargained. “Take my share. But Jack never finds out.”
The next day, Evelyn was all smiles at dinner, acting like she hadn’t just threatened to destroy us. Morrison kept his head down, counting the days until his payout.
And me? I learned that some legacies aren’t worth inheriting.
