Part 3The Heir of the Hidden Sweater

Five days after the family meeting, Bradley posted on Facebook.

It was a photo of a shiny set of house keys dangling in front of a newly constructed suburban home. The caption:

Thanks to Grandpa looking down on me. Down payment secured! Next chapter begins.

A hundred and fifty grand. He used it to buy a house.

In the comments, his wife, Courtney, replied: So proud of you, babe! Finally, a place of our own! followed by three heart emojis.

I stared at the screen until my vision blurred.

Six years. Three hundred weekends. Thousands of dollars.

He had never even texted me a "thank you."

The next morning, my phone buzzed. It was Nana.

"Brianna, we need to handle a little paperwork," she said, her voice entirely too casual.

"Your grandfather’s estate has been settled, as you know. But your Uncle Mark brought up the fact that, legally, you still have inheritance rights on paper."

I didn't respond.

"So," she continued, "I'm going to have a courier drop off a waiver of inheritance. Just sign it and send it back."

She said it like she was asking me to sign for a package. "It'll just save us a headache down the line."

I froze. "What kind of waiver?"

"To formally relinquish your claim to the estate. Your brother already signed his half of the paperwork, we just need yours to close the probate."

I let the silence stretch for five agonizing seconds.

"Nana. You gave me a dirty, worn-out sweater, and now you want me to sign a legal document giving up my rights?"

Her tone instantly hardened, the polite veneer cracking.

"What exactly are you implying? Are you trying to pick a fight with your brother over money?"

"I didn't say—"

"Brianna." She cut me off, her voice dropping into that familiar, icy register. "You are a girl. Eventually, you'll marry into someone else's family. Why on earth should your grandfather's legacy go to you?"

I gripped the phone. My knuckles turned white.

"We all appreciate what you did for him those last few years. But that was expected of you. You're the granddaughter."

There it was again. Expected.

"Bradley is the firstborn grandson. The family assets belong to him. That is just how the world works."

I took a deep breath. A furious, burning retort sat on the tip of my tongue.

But I swallowed it.

Not because I was afraid of her.

But because my mind was racing back to one specific thing.

The mothballs.

Why was the scent of mothballs so painfully strong?

A sweater washed that often shouldn't smell like a storage chest.

Unless... it had something inside it.

I hung up on her mid-sentence.

I walked over to my bed and picked up the gray sweater.

I held it up to the light.

I turned it inside out.

I checked the collar.

The cuffs.

The hem.

My fingers stopped.

On the inner left side of the bottom hem, there was a seam.

The stitching was different from the rest of the garment. The rest of the sweater was machine-knit.

This section was sewn by hand.

By Grandpa's hand.

I recognized the tight, meticulous stitches. He had worked as a tailor when he first immigrated.

My heart started to pound against my ribs.

I grabbed a pair of sewing scissors from my desk. My hands were shaking.

Carefully, I snipped the thread and pulled the seam apart.

Inside the lining.

A thick, heavy-duty ziplock bag. Vacuum-sealed flat.

I pulled it out and tore it open.

Inside were three things.

A legal document.

A sealed envelope.

And a brass key.