My half-sister Alyssa always had a way of making people feel small. At our father’s funeral, she stood tall and confident, certain of what she deserved. Her confidence turned into a smirk when the will was read: she inherited ninety thousand dollars, while I inherited Dad’s cactus. Alyssa actually laughed, casually remarking that because she had kids and I was forty-two with no legacy, the plant could keep me company. I didn’t argue, but that night, I cried quietly on my kitchen floor.
Still, that plant mattered to me. Dad had cared for it for years, and it felt like the last piece of him I could touch. I treated it gently, watering it and talking to it just as he had. Three days later, Alyssa called, her tone suddenly tight and rushed. She claimed the cactus would look nice as décor in her living room and said she was coming to get it. Sensing something wrong in her desperate request, I told her no, and she hung up without another word.
Nine weeks passed before I decided to repot the cactus. As I loosened the soil, my fingers brushed against something hard at the bottom of the pot. Sealed carefully in plastic was a small USB drive. With shaking hands, I plugged it into my laptop and discovered documents for investment accounts and portfolios worth over four hundred thousand dollars.
The drive also contained a video. In it, my dad looked tired but his eyes were warm. He told me how proud he was of the strong, kind woman I had become, explaining that he kept these investments a secret so I would learn to stand on my own. Alyssa’s sudden interest in the plant finally made sense—she must have suspected something—but the money wasn’t what saved me. Whenever doubt creeps in and I feel small, I watch that video and remember that I was truly loved.
