They say grief brings families closer—but after my mom died, it tore mine apart. I was just nineteen when cancer took her quickly, and my dad wasted no time trying to erase her memory. The final straw came when he heartlessly dumped Peanut—my mom’s beloved French Bulldog—at a shelter while I was out.
I found Peanut, but I was too late. Someone else had already adopted her. I was devastated—until two weeks later, when the lawyer called.
Turns out, Mom had one last move. Everything she owned—the house, the money, her belongings—was left to Peanut. And since dogs can’t manage property, her chosen guardian would control it all.
That guardian was me.
My father was furious, but by then, Peanut was already safe—adopted by my mom’s best friend, who worked at the shelter. I moved in with her, taking over the estate and starting a new life. Peanut slept by my side, a piece of my mom still with me.
As for my father?
He was left with nothing.
Just like what he gave us.
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