She had spent years making it clear I wasn’t good enough for her son. Every meeting, every holiday, every conversation carried her sharp judgment. So when she died, I thought I’d finally be forgotten. But Susan had one last surprise—and it changed everything.
They say funerals bring out the best and worst in people. In my case, it was mostly the worst.
It was a cloudy Tuesday morning. I stood by the church doors, arms wrapped around myself, watching a steady flow of black coats and sad faces pass by. My husband, Eric, stood next to me, silent and stiff, his eyes locked on the casket as if staring too long could somehow bring her back.
He hadn’t said much since his mother passed a week ago. I didn’t blame him. Grief hits people differently, and with Eric, it was quiet. Heavy. Like an anchor weighing him down.
His older brother, Mark, was a different story. He hovered near the front pew, dabbing at his eyes with a monogrammed handkerchief, but the twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed him. I could almost see him counting inheritance in his head: stocks, bonds, the Connecticut mansion, Susan’s antique collection—the works.
I tried to summon some feeling. Not grief, exactly—I’d given up on that years ago—but at least a flicker of sadness, a tug at the heart. I searched for a memory, even a small one, of Susan being kind to me. There was nothing. She had been ice from the very start.
I remembered our first meeting, seven years ago. I sat at her massive dining room table, holding a steaming cup of chamomile tea. She looked at me over the rim of her glasses and said, sharp as a knife, “You’ll never be part of this family, Kate. Not truly.”
At the time, I thought she was just protective of her son. But over the years, it became clear. She tried to stop Eric from marrying me. On the night before our wedding, she cornered him and whispered, “Are you sure you want to throw your life away?” That was Susan.
“I just don’t understand why she hated me so much,” I whispered to Eric as we left the service.
He didn’t answer immediately. “She was difficult with everyone, Kate. Not just you.”
I nodded, though we both knew the truth. Difficult was her baseline—but with me, it had been personal, as if I were a threat she could never forgive.
Still, she was gone. I sat beside Eric in the black car headed to the reception, forcing myself to make a promise: I wouldn’t speak ill of her anymore. Not aloud. Let the bad blood settle with her.
Three days later, I got a call that shook everything.
“Mrs. Carter? This is Alan, Susan’s attorney. We’d like to invite you to the reading of her will. It’ll be this Friday at 11 a.m.”
“Me?” I blinked. “Are you sure? Don’t you usually just deal with family?”
“You’re listed, Mrs. Carter. We’ll need you present.”
I hung up, confused. I didn’t want to go. Susan had barely tolerated me at holidays, never considered me family. But Eric placed his hand over mine and said quietly, “Come with me. Please.”
The lawyer’s office was a glass tower downtown, sterile and too bright. We were ushered into a conference room with a long polished table. Mark was already there, talking loudly about golf tee times, like the world revolved around him.
I sat beside Eric, hands folded, as Alan—a man in his sixties with a slight stoop and calm, monotone voice—opened a thick folder.
“The last will of Susan,” he began, “to be read on the 16th day of the month, in the presence of immediate family and involved parties.”
Mark’s eyes gleamed with dollar signs. The first part was dull: legal clauses, burial instructions, charitable donations. Then Alan paused.
“And to my daughter-in-law, Kate…”
I froze. Did I hear that right?
Alan repeated slowly, clearly: “All her millions, her mansion, and assets—all go to Kate.”
A heavy silence fell. I blinked, thinking maybe it was a mistake. But the room’s energy shifted. Eric looked stunned. Mark’s face twisted into disbelief.
“What did you just say?” Mark barked.
“I’m just reading what’s written here,” Alan replied calmly.
“Did you know about this?” Mark demanded of Eric.
“No. I had no idea,” Eric said slowly.
The tension could have been cut with a knife. And then Alan raised a hand.
“There is one condition.”
My stomach dropped.
“What kind of condition?” I asked.
Alan opened a sealed addendum. “Kate must adopt a specific child. Only then will she inherit the estate.”
I stared at him, frozen. “I… have to adopt a child? A specific one?”
“Yes. All details are in this dossier,” Alan said, sliding a thin folder toward me.
I opened it. A photo fell out: a small boy, maybe five, brown hair, a shy smile that didn’t reach his tired eyes. His name: Ben. He lived with a foster family on the outskirts of town.
Before I could react, Eric jumped up. “I need some air,” he muttered, rushing out.
Alan said softly, “You may want to take the dossier with you.”
I followed him to the parking lot. Eric sat in the car, gripping the wheel as if it could anchor him. I slid in beside him.
“Eric… what’s going on? Do you know this child?”
He wouldn’t look at me. “Kate… please promise me something.”
“Promise me what?”
“Don’t look into who he is. Don’t adopt him. We can live without the money. This… needs to stay buried.”
I stared, stunned. “What past? What does that mean?”
He whispered, “Just promise me.”
I swallowed the bitter taste in my mouth. “Okay. I promise.”
Weeks passed. Everything felt off. His smile, that little boy’s image, Eric’s terrified look—it haunted me. I couldn’t ignore it. I needed answers.
One Friday, after Eric left for work, I drove to Ben’s foster home. The house was small and worn, peeling paint, sagging steps. I knocked, and a tired-looking woman answered.
“Hi, I’m Kate. I… I’m here about Ben,” I said.
Her eyes widened. “You’re Kate? Come in. Susan warned me about you.”
I blinked. “She warned you about me?”
“Yes. She said if you came alone, I should let you in.”
Inside, the house smelled of detergent and old wood. Toys scattered the floor. I met Ben, shy but curious.
“Hi, Ben. I’m Kate,” I said softly.
“Are you a friend of Grandma Susan?”
“I knew Susan,” I said, my voice shaking.
As I prepared to leave, the foster mother handed me an envelope. “Susan wanted you to have this if you came alone.”
In the car, hands trembling, I opened it. Susan’s handwriting stared back:
“Dear Kate, I treated you terribly. But you have the love I could never give Ben. He is Eric’s son, from a past you didn’t know. I chose you because you can give him a home, a mother, the love he deserves.”
Tears blurred my vision. I drove home, envelope clutched tight. Eric was on the couch when I arrived.
“You went,” he whispered.
I handed him the letter. As he read, he shook, tears streaming. “Kate, I panicked. I thought it would be easier to ignore him. I didn’t want my life to fall apart.”
I looked at him. “Eric, you were willing to let your own son move from home to home to save yourself. I can’t stay with a man who would do that.”
I stood, grabbed my keys, and walked out. That night, I slept at my mother’s house. For the first time in years, I felt peace.
Two months later, I filed for divorce. Four months later, I adopted Ben.
And for the first time, I found myself. I found motherhood. I found love.
And strangely enough, I even felt gratitude for the woman who once hated me. In the end, Susan had given me the greatest gift of all: my son.