I believed my father’s will would secure my future. So, when the lawyer announced an unfamiliar name, my grandmother was immediately furious. Who was Brenna, and why did my father leave everything to her? There had to be a hidden story behind it.

Rules dictated my childhood. Every day, my grandmother Loretta’s stern voice filled our home.

“Mona, sit up straight. A proper lady always maintains her composure.”

That was my grandmother, Loretta. After my mother passed away, Loretta became my guardian, molding me into her vision of perfection.

From my grades to my posture, and even down to how I folded napkins, everything was scrutinized. It was a relentless pursuit of perfection, but I tried to meet her standards.

When my father died, Loretta quickly shifted to her preferred priority—control. I’ll never forget that pivotal day in the lawyer’s office.

“Mona, we’ll invest wisely,” she had declared, convinced we’d preserve our family legacy. “Your father’s hard work led to this.”

I trusted her. Loretta’s confidence had always been unwavering. In that cold office with lukewarm coffee, my future seemed assured.

“As per your father’s wishes,” the lawyer announced, “his estate and assets will be inherited by Brenna.”

“Who is Brenna?” the question slipped from my mouth before I could hold it back.

The lawyer continued, “Brenna is your father’s other daughter.”

“My sister? I have a sister?”

“This is absurd!” Loretta’s sharp retort echoed across the room. “It must be an error! My son wouldn’t abandon us for a stranger!”

“There’s no mistake, ma’am,” assured the lawyer. “Your son left clear instructions. Brenna is the heir to the house, accounts, and stocks.”

“Unbelievable!” Loretta’s voice rose in disbelief. “You’re saying this unknown girl receives everything?”

I barely processed their words. A sister—a sister I never knew. Loretta’s hand clutched mine, her grip unyielding.

“We’ll handle this, Mona. We’ll track down Brenna and ensure she respects what’s right.”

Her words felt oppressive, yet defying Loretta had never been an option.

Within days, at Loretta’s insistence, I found myself on Brenna’s doorstep. Her small house leaned slightly, its paint peeling from years under a harsh sun.

The front door creaked open before I even knocked, revealing Brenna with a welcoming smile. Her arms hung naturally, fingers moving in a gentle, subconscious dance.

“Hi!” she greeted, her voice bright and melodious. “I saw you approaching. Did you park by the mailbox? It’s a bit unstable. I need to fix it, but…”

Her voice trailed, her gaze settling on the doorway corner. She tapped it rhythmically three times with her knuckles.

“Uh, yes,” I replied somewhat awkwardly. “I’m Mona. Your sister.”

“Come in!” she invited, stepping aside yet avoiding eye contact. “Be cautious—the floorboard near the kitchen squeaks.”

Inside, the house held a faint aroma of clay and earth. A narrow hallway led to a kitchen dominated by a workbench overflowing with pottery pieces, paint jars, and unfamiliar tools.

Brenna rearranged mismatched vases on the windowsill multiple times, murmuring under her breath before nodding, seemingly satisfied.

She turned to me, her smile resuming, “So you’re my sister.”

“Yes,” I responded slowly, uncertain how much to say. “Our father… he recently passed.”

Her smile didn’t falter. “What’s it like, having a dad?”

“It’s… hard to describe. He was kind. We were friends.”

She nodded, her fingers twitching against her thighs. “I never met him. But I have his hands.” She showed her palms, subtly marked with clay. “Mom always said so. Large hands, like his.”

Her honest transparency was disarming. I anticipated resentment or suspicion but instead found gentle acceptance.

“Dad left me a gift,” Brenna mentioned.

“A gift?” I echoed. “That’s… thoughtful.”

“Yes, he called it that. In the letter from the lawyer. Did he leave you a gift, too?”

I hesitated, Loretta’s harsh words echoing in my mind. “Not exactly. He didn’t…”

“That’s curious. Everyone should receive a gift.”

I smiled, “Perhaps.”

“Stay for a week,” Brenna proposed, smiling. “Tell me about him—what he was like, his favorite foods, the sound of his voice.”

“A week?” I asked, surprised. “I’m not sure…”

“In exchange,” she interrupted, “I’ll share the gift. It’s the right thing to do.” Her hands twisted together, waiting for my reply.

“I don’t really have much to say about him,” I said, feeling a twinge of dishonesty. “But… okay. A week it is.”

Her face brightened. “Great. We can have pancakes, only if you like them.”

She returned to her workbench, humming softly. I knew what her “gift” was. At that point, Loretta’s plan seemed straightforward. Too straightforward. But Brenna’s warmth was already beginning to complicate everything.

During my time at Brenna’s, it felt as if I had stepped into an alternate reality, a place where the world revolved leisurely and expectations faded. Everything about her life was unlike mine.

Breakfast wasn’t a quick croissant from a trendy café. It was a simple meal—bacon, eggs, and tea served on paper plates.

“This way, it’s easier,” Brenna explained one morning. “No big cleanup. More time for pottery.”

Her unfiltered way of speaking was refreshing, though her rituals of arranging items until perfectly aligned caught my attention. Every ritual seemed to tell a story.

“Let’s walk to the lake,” she suggested after breakfast on my second morning.

Brenna slipped out of her sandals, leaving them lined neatly by the porch steps, then walked barefoot on the grass.

“It’s better like this.”

Dew spotted the grass, cool against my feet, as I followed her. Occasionally pausing to touch leaves or rearrange small stones, her actions gave her peace, as though essential as breathing.

By the lake, she crouched, dipping her fingers into the water. “Do you ever just sit and listen?”

“Listen to what?” I questioned, bewildered and standing back.

“Everything.”

Throughout my stay, Brenna’s studio became the heartbeat of our days, its air redolent of clay and creativity.

On the third day, she handed me clay. “Try making something.”

My first attempt was an atrocity. Clay slithered and slumped from my fingers, collapsing into a formless blob.

“This is awful,” I sighed, on the verge of discarding it.

“It’s not awful,” Brenna’s hands moved with care, molding the clay, demonstrating techniques. “It’s just new. New things take time.”

Impressed by her patience, I watched her skill. Even when I spilled water on her work surface, smudging one of her pieces, she didn’t chastise me. Rather, she cleaned up gently.

Just as I began to relax, shedding the burden of Loretta’s control, her calls grew more urgent. It felt as if she sensed a change in me, like I was learning to breathe and live in newfound ways.

That evening, her voice cut sharply through the earpiece. “Mona, why are you hesitating? This is no vacation! Take action. She has no idea how to handle such resources.”

I remained mute, though my grasp on the phone tightened. Her impatience was palpable.

“She’s naïve, Mona. Convince her to transfer it. If persuasion fails… utilize her trust.”

Her counsel struck wrong against the fabric of Brenna’s world.

“I’m not sure, Grandma. It’s complicated.”

“It’s straightforward,” she insisted. “Don’t be swayed by her quirks. Stay focused, Mona.”

I longed to argue—perhaps Brenna deserved more than assumed—but words failed me. I offered an indistinct reply and ended the call. For the first time, I began to question my motives.

The next day, Loretta appeared unexpectedly, her presence like a whirlwind tearing through our calm. Her sharp heels clacked on the uneven flooring as she entered the house.

“This is where you’ve hidden?” she barked, eyes scanning Brenna’s artistically cluttered pottery studio. “How can you endure this disarray, Mona? And as for you,” she turned toward Brenna, “you have no right to this inheritance.”

Brenna stood still, her trembling hands adjusting the vases, softly repeating “Gift, gift.”

Loretta ignored her, focusing on me. “Mona, put an end to this charade. She doesn’t deserve your father’s legacy. She’s…” Loretta’s disdain darkened her tone, “different from us.”

“Gift,” Brenna stated louder, pointing to a modest cabinet. Her rocking intensified, fingers entwining with her apron strings.

Hesitant, I approached the cabinet. Inside, I discovered a bundle of old letters, their papers frayed at the edges. Each carried my father’s name. My heart raced.

“What are those?” Loretta demanded.

“They’re from Brenna’s mother,” I revealed, sifting through them. “Did you ever know?”

Loretta’s complexion blanched before her expression turned steely. “I did what was necessary! Should I have allowed some woman to tie my son down with her flawed child? When she sought him, I warned her to stay away. I wouldn’t let them invade our family.”

Her harsh declarations hit like a cold chill, and Brenna clung to her table, eyes wide and fixed on Loretta.

“You splintered this family,” I said, voice quivering. “You didn’t even tell him about his other daughter.”

Loretta’s biting laughter echoed. “He found out! That’s why he re-wrote the will. And you’re granting her everything!”

“Dad left a gift,” Brenna murmured. “He meant for me to have it.”

“This transcends money, Grandma. I won’t let you rob anything else from her.”

Fuming, Loretta exited, slamming the door in her wake.

I turned toward Brenna. “I’m sorry. I love you, sis.”

Seemingly unfazed, Brenna asked, “Pancakes?”

I grinned, “Oh, I’d love that!”

That evening, we dined on the porch as the setting sun cast warm hues across the sky. From that moment, we slowly began crafting a shared life.

Helping Brenna expand her pottery studio became our joint venture. Together, we renovated the house and adorned it with flowers, while I rekindled my passion for painting through embellishing her creations.

Our reputation spread, attracting visitors from other communities hungry for our art. Life retained imperfections, but it was genuinely ours. For once, I wasn’t living under someone else’s shadow—I was living for us, Brenna and me.