My parents’ mansion had twelve rooms, but no space for love that didn’t come with a price tag. So when I introduced Noah – my kind, funny, underpaid teaching assistant boyfriend – their rejection was immediate. “We didn’t send you to college to marry a glorified babysitter,” my father scoffed.
The ultimatum came with my engagement: break it off or lose their support. I chose love, and they chose absence – two empty chairs at our simple garden wedding where my grandfather proudly gave me away instead.
For a decade, we built a life my parents would have scoffed at – small apartment, secondhand furniture, but overflowing with happiness. Grandpa visited weekly, becoming my daughter Mia’s favorite storyteller and chess partner. “This,” he’d say, gesturing to our chaotic, love-filled home, “is what success looks like.”
When cancer took Grandpa last spring, my parents appeared at the funeral like ghosts from my past. Their tearful apologies almost convinced me – until Aunt Marianne revealed the truth. Grandpa’s will stipulated they’d only inherit if they reconciled with me.
As I scattered his ashes in our old garden, I finally understood. My parents had spent their lives chasing wealth, while Grandpa knew the secret all along – the richest people are those who give and receive love without conditions.
