My Parents Gave Their Favorite Daughter a $5M Inheritance, Then My Grandpa Stepped In

Grandpa was gone. The man who had believed in me, supported me, and encouraged my every step in life was gone, and I hadn’t even had the chance to say goodbye.

The memories of him flooded my mind during the entire journey home. I held back tears as I thought of his smile, his voice, and the way he would light up whenever I talked about my experiments.

At 1:30 p.m. on Thursday, I made my way to the church. The empty parking lot was my first clue that something wasn’t right.

My footsteps echoed in the silent building as I approached the entrance, dread building with each step. Inside, a custodian was mopping the floor, the faint smell of cleaning products filling the air.

“The Walker funeral?”

I asked, my voice trembling.

He looked up from his work and frowned.

“That ended hours ago. They held it at 10 a.m.”

It felt like someone had punched me in the gut. The world tilted as I grabbed onto a nearby pew for support.

Frantically, I pulled out my phone and called my parents.

“Oh Sharon.”

Mom answered, her voice dripping with mock disappointment.

“You must have mixed up the times. We clearly said 10 a.m.”

“No.”

I said firmly, my hand shaking so badly I could barely hold the phone.

“You said 2 p.m. I wrote it down. I know you said 2 p.m.”

“Your grandmother is still in the nursing home.”

Dad interjected smoothly.

“And she doesn’t want to see you right now. She’s very upset that you missed the funeral.”

Their words felt like knives cutting deeper with every syllable. Shaken and desperate for answers, I told them I was heading back to university, but my feet had other plans.

Without even realizing it, I found myself driving to my grandparents’ house. The familiar street looked exactly the same: the old oak tree, the neatly tended garden, the wind chimes Grandma loved so much.

My hands trembled as I rang the doorbell, my heart pounding in my chest. For a moment, nothing happened.

Then the door opened, and there she was. Grandma.

The same Grandma who was supposedly in a nursing home refusing to see me. Relief flooded through me as I moved to hug her, but she stepped back, and the look in her eyes stopped me cold.

Her face was hard, unfamiliar, like she was looking at a stranger.

“Grandma.”

I whispered.

But the word felt hollow. I didn’t know how to process the coldness in her gaze, the sharpness in her posture.

This wasn’t the woman who had once been my safe haven. I had always been different, captivated by the world around me in ways that confused my family.

Even as a child, I’d collect leaves, rocks, or anything else I could examine with a tiny magnifying lens I’d taken from a cereal box. While Helen played with dolls and dreamed of being a princess, I was asking questions my parents didn’t have time to answer.

“Mom, why do leaves change color and fall?”

I’d ask, holding up a bright red maple leaf.

“Ask your teacher, Sharon.”

Mom would reply, barely glancing at me.

“I’m busy helping Helen with her dance costume.”

This was my childhood: a constant stream of questions about science and the environment met with dismissive answers. When I was seven, I remember sitting at the kitchen table with a collection of household objects spread out in front of me.

I was experimenting, fascinated by the reaction of baking soda mixed with different liquids.

“What in Heaven’s name are you doing?”

Mom’s voice broke my concentration.

“Observe this!”

I said proudly, holding up the fizzing mixture.

“Now clean it up.”

She snapped.

“I need the kitchen spotless. Helen’s friends are coming over for her birthday party.”