My grandpa, whom I adored, passed last week. At the will reading, everything went to my sister, who rarely visited. Devastated, I pleaded for a split; she refused, citing his wishes.

That night, a note in my old coat pocket stopped me cold: “If you found this, you cared enough to wear the coat we mended together. I excluded you from the will to prove your love wasn’t for money—I knew your heart.”

Tears fell as I read on: “Check the loose floorboard in my study for something special, beyond wealth.”

Next morning, trembling, I lifted the board. A wooden box held a notebook, “Our Stories,” brimming with memories—park walks, coat repairs, Sunday breakfasts. A letter inside: “These moments were your true inheritance. For your future, a savings account in your name. Use wisely, live kindly, shun bitterness—your heart is your gift.”

Grandpa trusted my spirit more than gold. Anger toward my sister vanished; peace filled me. I hugged the notebook. Love was our legacy—I’d carry it in gratitude, not resentment.