The Last Letter: What My Dying Mother Left Behind Changed Everything (2 of 3)
That night, I slipped into my mom’s old study and opened the small jewelry box she’d once given me. Inside, beneath a pearl necklace, was a slim leather notebook. I flipped it open and found her last entry—written days before she entered the hospital. It was a letter addressed to me. She warned me about Cassandra. And my father.
Mom had discovered their affair years before I was born. Hired a private investigator. Collected evidence. Photos, emails, bank records—proof of betrayal. But the worst part? Medical reports with signs of poisoning. Elevated levels of heavy metals. My mother hadn’t just died. She’d been erased.
But she had planned ahead. A secret trust fund in my name. A team of lawyers and a retired judge as my allies. Everything hidden until I turned eighteen.
I didn’t cry. I strategized.
For two years, I played my part—smiling at Cassandra’s parties, excelling at school, earning her trust. But behind the scenes, I was building a case. Digitizing files, meeting with lawyers, studying corporate law after midnight. By graduation, I had learned how to win.
Then came Mother’s Day. Cassandra threw one of her usual extravagant luncheons. I handed her a gift—a leather-bound book titled A Daughter’s Gratitude. She smiled. Opened it. Inside were all the receipts. All the reports. A list of the accounts now frozen. And a scheduled appointment with the judge the next morning.
Her face drained. “What do you want?”
“Just show up tomorrow. With Dad. Signed papers in hand.”
That night, she tried to run. I stopped her.
The next day, in the judge’s chambers, Dad surrendered the company. Cassandra vanished—briefly. Two months later, she was arrested trying to access her offshore accounts. I took over the firm. Sold the house. Started over. Now, every Mother’s Day, I send Cassandra one thing: a photo of Mom in her garden, smiling in the sun. She never replies. But I know she sees it.
Some reminders don’t need words. Some truths never die.
