Then, Mr. Morrison paused. He looked directly at me over the rim of his glasses.

My heart hammered against my ribs. Everyone turned to stare. This was it. Grandpa had always been closest to me. He’d taught me chess, taken me sailing, shared stories about building his empire from nothing when everyone else was too busy spending his money. Surely, he’d left me something significant.

“To my granddaughter, April Thompson,” Mr. Morrison continued, his voice steady, “I leave this envelope.”

That was it. An envelope.

The room erupted in uncomfortable laughter. Mom actually chuckled and patted my knee condescendingly. “Well, honey, I’m sure there’s something meaningful inside. Maybe a nice letter.”

But I could see it in their faces. They thought it was hilarious. Poor April. The granddaughter who’d spent every summer helping Grandpa with his business ventures, who’d listened to his stories about Monaco and Las Vegas, who’d been his chess partner for fifteen years, had been left with an envelope while everyone else got millions.

“Aoka nottoim,” Mom said, barely containing her laughter as she butchered the Portuguese phrase, trying to sound worldly. “I guess your grandfather didn’t love you that much after all.”

The words hit me like a physical blow. Twenty-six years of family gatherings, of being the responsible one, of helping everyone with their problems, and this was how they saw me: the afterthought. The leftover.