He'd always loved my little sister best—ever since we were kids!
The question slipped out before I could stop it. "Dad, what are you leaving for Monica?"
Beside me, my sister's eyes were so swollen from crying they were nearly shut. The moment she heard my words, she shook her head over and over. "I don't want anything. I don't want a single thing. I just want Dad to be okay!"
Father and daughter gazed at each other through tear-blurred eyes, hands clasped tight. The tender scene only fueled the whispers around me.
"Look at that—the older daughter has no heart at all. All she cares about is the inheritance."
"No wonder Mr. Swanson favors the younger one. See how sweet she is? She doesn't want a thing except for her father to get better. If she were my daughter, I'd favor her too!"
Every comparison, every jab—I dug my nails deeper into my palms as I listened.
It was always like this.
They were always measuring me against my sister, and the verdict was always the same: Monica was better. Monica was more deserving of our father's love.
A fire roared to life inside my chest, but my face stayed perfectly still.
It doesn't matter, I told myself. I got the assets. What could she possibly have left?
In this final chapter of the will, I had come out on top.
"Monica, sweetheart—Daddy can't leave you any properties or shares, but I did prepare a small gift for you."
The word gift hit me like a slap of cold water.
I knew it. He still favored her.
He reached into the pocket of his hospital gown and pulled out three sealed envelopes, pressing them into my sister's palm.
"Remember—open one each year. Don't rush."
Monica nodded through her tears. I stood there feeling as though someone had struck me across the face.
Everyone crowded around her, chattering and speculating about what secrets those envelopes might hold.
I was the one who'd inherited everything. The company's new owner was me. Yet not a single person spared me a glance.
The resentment was white-hot—but before I could say a word to my father, he was gone.
In his final moments, he'd leaned close and whispered something into Monica's ear.
He left nothing for me. Not a single word.
Monica clutched those three envelopes and wept until she could barely breathe. She dropped to her knees at his bedside and bowed her head to the floor three times.
"Dad, I promise! I'll do exactly what the envelopes say!"
Everyone praised her devotion. No one noticed me, pressed into the corner like I didn't exist.
I wanted to know what was written inside those envelopes more than anyone.
But Monica guarded them with her life and refused to let me see.
People consoled me, saying I'd already won the biggest victory in this inheritance battle.
And when I moved into the mansion my father left behind, I believed them. I believed I'd won.
Then, a year later, Monica opened the first envelope.
She even called to tell me about it. "Marcia, the first envelope had a number in it. Dad said I should buy a lottery ticket."
I laughed out loud. Everyone knew how astronomically low the odds of winning the lottery were. Was this really Dad's idea of a parting gift—one last scrap of hope?
From the comfort of my villa, I shared the news with Walter, my live-in boyfriend. We both had a good laugh at my sister's naivety. Did she honestly think a lottery ticket was going to make her rich?
What I never could have imagined was that she won. And not just any prize—the grand jackpot. Fifty million dollars.
At the very same time, my villa was hit by a break-in. They pried open the safe, cleaned out every last dollar, every piece of jewelry. All of it—gone.
I was at the police station, drained to the bone and giving my statement, while Monica was basking in the spotlight collecting her fifty-million-dollar windfall.
Walter rubbed my back, then leaned in close and murmured, "Marcia… is it possible your sister stole your luck?"
