At Grandpa’s funeral, 18-year-old Dahlia felt completely alone as her family seethed over the meager $1 inheritance they each received. But when a stranger handed her a secret note, Dahlia was drawn into a mystery only she could solve.
I stood by the graveside, my hands buried in the pockets of a black dress that felt two sizes too small. The priest’s monotonous voice blended with the rustling wind, but I barely heard it. All I could feel was the weight of loss pressing down on me.
This should have been a moment of mourning, but the air around me was thick with something else—resentment. Grandpa had left each of us just one dollar in his will, and my family was fuming.
I wasn’t angry, though. I was empty. Grandpa wasn’t supposed to be gone. He was the only person who ever saw me—really saw me. To the rest of the family, I was just the spare kid, the screw-up. But to him, I was someone who mattered.
As I looked down at the flowers scattered across his coffin, I spotted my single red rose among the sea of white daisies everyone else had placed. It was the only thing that stood out, just like Grandpa had always made me feel.
Behind me, I heard Aunt Nancy hiss, “One dollar. That’s it? He was loaded, and all we get is one damn dollar?”
Uncle Vic let out a bitter chuckle. “He did it on purpose. Spiteful old man.”
“Typical Dad,” Mom muttered, crossing her arms. “He always had his favorites. And Dahlia was his little pet. Bet she got something we don’t know about.”
I stiffened as Aunt Nancy’s sharp eyes bore into me. “What did he leave you, Dahlia? Anything? Don’t pretend you didn’t get something.”
“I didn’t,” I replied flatly. “I got the same as all of you.”
Mom’s grip tightened on my shoulder. “Are you sure? You were always with him. Maybe he told you something.”
Her words stirred up memories—Grandpa’s goofy tales of hidden treasure, the butterscotch candies he kept in his pocket. He’d always wink and say, “One day, kiddo, I’m leaving you a real treasure.”
But it was just a game, a joke between us. Or so I thought.
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