The hallway outside the delivery room smelled sharp and old, heavy with fear. I sat next to Jake, my sister Emily’s husband. Though we were close, it felt like we were miles apart. He rubbed his jeans anxiously while I tried — and failed — to lighten the mood.
Finally, the nurse appeared. We rushed in. Everything was too bright, too clean. Emily, exhausted but smiling, held a tiny newborn in her arms. Jake looked ready to faint.
The baby’s name was Martin — the same as my son. When I asked about it, Emily shrugged it off like it was nothing. But something in her smile felt off.
Weeks passed. Emily grew distant. When Mom died, Emily barely called. Grieving, we gathered for the will reading. Most things were split fairly, but the house was left “to my grandson, Martin.”
I smiled — Mom had always adored my Martin. But Emily’s face tightened. “Which Martin?” she asked.
There was no clarification. Suddenly, the house was caught between our sons. I suspected Emily had named her baby Martin on purpose — to claim the inheritance.
Later, while cleaning out Mom’s room, I found a note. Comparing it to the will, something felt wrong. The handwriting didn’t match.
A handwriting expert confirmed it: the will had been altered. Emily broke down, confessing she had felt second-best her whole life. Naming her son Martin and forging the will were desperate acts to claim some piece of love she thought she’d missed.
She stormed out, leaving behind bitterness and regret. I stayed, tracing the spots where Mom’s memory still lingered, promising myself to set things right.
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