Grandma had asked that her favorite rosebush be moved one year after her death — when I did it, I murmured, “Grandma knew.”
Before she died, Grandma called me into her room. Her hands trembled, but her voice was steady.
“Sweetheart, after I’m gone, promise me you’ll move my rosebush. Dig it up after a year. Don’t forget.”
I nodded through tears. Then she added, “And the house — it goes to you and your mother. The lawyer has my will.”
I didn’t understand why she emphasized the lawyer. At the time, I thought she was simply making sure everything was in order.
At the funeral, everything fell apart.
My aunt — Grandma’s eldest daughter — arrived late, draped in black silk and diamonds that sparkled under the church lights. She barely shed a tear. Instead, she carried a leather folder clutched tightly to her chest.
When the family gathered afterward, she cleared her throat dramatically.
“I have Mom’s real will,” she announced. “The house is mine. Mom left it to me.”
My mother went pale. “That’s not what she told us,” she whispered.
The document my aunt presented looked official — signatures, stamps, everything. Confusion rippled through the room. Accusations followed. Old resentments surfaced. By the end of the day, the family was divided.
The lawyer Grandma had mentioned was “unavailable” for weeks, according to my aunt. Legal delays began. My mother didn’t have the strength or money to fight immediately. And so, within months, my aunt moved into the house that had been Grandma’s for forty years.
But I remembered the rosebush.
Grandma’s favorite rosebush grew at the edge of the backyard fence. She tended it every morning, talking to it as if it were an old friend. It bloomed the deepest red I had ever seen.
A year passed.
On the morning of the anniversary of her death, I returned to the house. My aunt wasn’t home; she had listed the property for sale and was rarely there. The garden was neglected, weeds curling around the rosebush’s base.
I stood there with a shovel in my hands, my heart pounding.
“Dig it up after a year,” Grandma had said.
Why a year?
The soil was stubborn at first, roots tangled and deep. I dug carefully, not wanting to damage the plant. As I loosened the earth around it, my shovel struck something hard.
Clink.
I froze.
Kneeling, I brushed away the dirt with my hands. Buried beneath the roots was a small metal box, rusted but intact.
My breath caught.
Inside the box was a sealed envelope wrapped in plastic to protect it from moisture — and a flash drive.
The envelope had my name written in Grandma’s familiar handwriting.
My hands shook as I opened it.
“If you’re reading this,” the letter began, “then someone tried to change my wishes. I had reason to believe your aunt would attempt this. The lawyer has my official will on record, but I have placed copies of documents and recordings on the drive in case anything ‘mysteriously’ changes.”
Grandma knew.
Tears blurred my vision as I read on. She explained that she had discovered my aunt pressuring her months before she died, trying to convince her to rewrite the will. Grandma had secretly recorded one of those conversations and informed her lawyer.
The flash drive contained everything — scanned copies of the legitimate will, dated and notarized, and an audio recording of my aunt demanding the house.
I didn’t waste a second.
Within days, we contacted the lawyer directly — not through my aunt. He was shocked. He confirmed that Grandma’s original will left the house to my mother and me. He had never authorized any changes.
The evidence from the box made the difference.
When confronted with the recordings and documents, my aunt’s confidence crumbled. The forged will she had presented unraveled under scrutiny. Legal consequences followed swiftly.
Months later, the house was legally restored to my mother and me.
The first thing we did was replant the rosebush in the center of the garden, where Grandma could have seen it from her kitchen window.
That spring, it bloomed more beautifully than ever.
Sometimes I sit beside it and think about how far ahead she had planned — how she protected us even after she was gone.
She knew her daughter.
She knew the truth might need to be uncovered.
And she knew that one day, I would keep my promise and dig deep enough to find it.
