The morning after Grandpa Walter Hayes’s funeral, my parents took my sister and me to a fancy law firm in downtown Denver for the reading of the will.

Dad was wearing a “big client” suit. Mom’s pearl necklace sparkled. My sister, Brooke, looked composed and photo-ready.

I came straight from a shift in the hospital cafeteria, my hands still smelling faintly of disinfectant. My mother looked at my simple black dress and muttered, “It’s about the family money.”

Family money never included me.

Brooke was always my favorite—tutoring, a car at sixteen, endless praise. I was the reserve child, expected to be grateful for scraps. The only one who treated me like I truly mattered was Grandpa Walter. He used to tell me, “Look how people act when they think they’ve already won.”

Attorney Harris began reading the will.

“To my granddaughter, Brooke Elaine Miller, I leave six million nine hundred thousand dollars.”

Brooke gasped dramatically. Dad chuckled with satisfaction. Mom leaned over and whispered, “Some kids just don’t grow up.”

Then Harris continued.

“To my daughter Diane Miller and my son-in-law Robert Miller, I leave one dollar each.”

Mom stiffened.

“And to my granddaughter, Claire Miller… one dollar.”

My parents burst into loud, carefree laughter. My mother slid a fresh dollar bill toward me as if I were a stranger. “Go and earn your own money,” she said.

I didn’t touch it.

Attorney Harris then produced a sealed envelope.