When my grandmother died, our family fell apart rapidly. We were fighting over her things before her funeral flowers had even withered. When I walked into her house, I expected to be sad, not to see family pulling open drawers in a frantic search for a will that wasn’t there.
The only thing that mattered to me in the middle of all the mayhem was Daisy, Grandma’s old terrier, who lay quivering next to her empty armchair, still waiting for a woman who would never come back. Everyone else thought the dog was a pain, but I picked Daisy up and took her out of the house, leaving behind the accusations, the greed, and the people I thought I knew falling apart.
Daisy mourned in her own quiet way at home, pacing the corners and refusing to eat. I tried to keep myself together in the empty place Grandma had left behind. We had spent years together on Sunday afternoons, drinking tea by the window, telling stories full of memories, and seeing that familiar glitter in her eye when she talked about the joy of life. And it was Daisy, of all people, who led me to the riddle Grandma had left behind.
One night as I was brushing her fur, I noticed that her old collar made a weird noise and the brass tag was thicker than usual. There was a small folded message inside that was written in Grandma’s unmistakable handwriting: “To whoever truly loved me, look beneath the oak.” Those words took me back to her backyard, where I found a rusty tin box with ancient gold coins and Grandma’s true will, which named me as her successor.
The eruption that came after was a volcano. As soon as the family found out what I had unearthed, they started accusing each other of lying and forging. But the lawyer said the will was real, and no one could figure out how I had found something that was so well hidden. Grandma always knew that the other people would look for money in her house and ignore the quiet, faithful things that were most important to her.
Daisy had kept the secret close to her heart the whole time. Most of my family members left frustrated, but I discovered a different type of serenity. I moved into Grandma’s house, fixed what had broken, and filled the rooms with warmth again. It was not the warmth of material possessions, but rather the warmth that she had poured into every nook.
Daisy stayed with me for two more peaceful years before she died under the same oak tree that had kept Grandma’s last message safe. I buried her there with quivering hands and mumbled my gratitude, knowing that she was the last living thing that Grandma had loved. Now that I’m sitting under those branches and listening to the wind rustle the leaves, I feel both of them close by: my grandma with her quiet wisdom and Daisy with her unwavering loyalty.
Grandma didn’t leave me her house or her money; she left me a truth she had always lived by: true love is never noisy or greedy or needs to battle for attention. It shows itself slowly, via trust, tiny acts, and occasionally the quiet company of an old dog who kept a secret safe until the proper people were ready to hear it.
