Then, Mr. Morrison paused. He looked directly at me over the rim of his glasses.<\/p>\n
My heart hammered against my ribs. Everyone turned to stare. This was it. Grandpa had always been closest to me. He\u2019d 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\u2019d left me something significant.<\/p>\n
\u201cTo my granddaughter, April Thompson,\u201d Mr. Morrison continued, his voice steady, \u201cI leave this envelope.\u201d<\/p>\n
That was it. An envelope.<\/p>\n
The room erupted in uncomfortable laughter. Mom actually chuckled and patted my knee condescendingly. \u201cWell, honey, I\u2019m sure there\u2019s something meaningful inside. Maybe a nice letter.\u201d<\/p>\n
But I could see it in their faces. They thought it was hilarious.\u00a0Poor April. The granddaughter who\u2019d spent every summer helping Grandpa with his business ventures, who\u2019d listened to his stories about Monaco and Las Vegas, who\u2019d been his chess partner for fifteen years, had been left with an envelope while everyone else got millions.<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cAoka nottoim,\u201d Mom said, barely containing her laughter as she butchered the Portuguese phrase, trying to sound worldly. \u201cI guess your grandfather didn\u2019t love you that much after all.\u201d<\/p>\n 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.<\/p>\n
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