**Diary Entry**
The solicitors office smelled of dust and old leather. I sat on a stiff wooden chair, my palms damp with nerves. Beside me, my older sister, Victoria, flicked through emails on her phone, dressed in a tailored suit, her nails perfectly manicured. She looked as though shed only come out of obligation, not because she cared.
I twisted the worn strap of my handbag. At thirty-four, I still felt like the quiet, awkward little sister next to hersuccessful, sharp, always a step ahead. Working at the local library didnt pay much, but I loved it. To everyone else, though, it was just a hobbyespecially to Victoria, who worked in finance, earning more in a month than I did in a year.
The solicitor, an elderly man with wire-rimmed glasses, cleared his throat and opened a folder. The room fell silent except for the steady tick of the wall clock. Time slowed. I remembered Granddads words: *The most important things happen in silence.*
*The last will and testament of Edward James Whitmore,* the solicitor began, his voice dry and formal.
*I bequeath the two-bedroom flat on Baker Street, London, including all furnishings, to my granddaughter, Victoria Elizabeth Whitmore.*
Victoria didnt even glance up from her phone. Of course not. Shed expected the best, as always. My chest tightened. Again, I was second. She had always been firsttop grades, a prestigious university, a wealthy husband, a luxury flat in the heart of the city. And me? Always in her shadow.
*Additionally, the property in the village of Ashford, including all outbuildings and the surrounding half-acre of land, I leave to my granddaughter, Emily Grace Whitmore.*
I blinked. The cottage? The one Granddad had lived in alone for years? I barely remembered itpeeling paint, a sagging roof, an overgrown garden. The last time Id seen it, it had looked ready to collapse.
Victoria finally looked up, smirking. *Well, at least you got something. Though honestly, I cant imagine what youll do with it. Maybe tear it down and sell the land?*
I said nothing. Why had Granddad done this? Did he think so little of me? I wanted to cry, but I wouldntnot here, not in front of her.
The solicitor finished the formalities, handing us each a set of keys. Victoria signed her papers in quick, efficient strokes, tucked her keys into her designer handbag, and stood.
*Ive got a meeting,* she said, barely glancing at me. *Dont take it too hardyou got something, at least.*
And she was gone, leaving only the faint scent of expensive perfume behind.
I sat there, clutching the heavy, rusted iron keys to the cottage. Outside, my husband, James, leaned against his battered car, smoking, his expression impatient.
*Well?* he snapped as I approached. *What did you get?*
I told him. His face darkened.
*A cottage in the middle of nowhere?* he spat. *Your sister gets a London flat worth half a million, and you get a ruin?*
I flinched. Hed been like this latelyshort-tempered, always angry about money.
*It was Granddads decision,* I whispered.
*You shouldve made him see reason! God, Emily, youre hopeless. Always too timid, too weak to fight for anything.*
His words stung. Seven years of marriage, and this was how he spoke to me.
*Maybe we can fix it up?* I suggested weakly.
*Fix what? That dump isnt worth a penny. Youd be lucky to get fifty grand for the land.*
He stormed off, slamming the car door. The drive home was silent.
That night, after James told me he was leavingfor Victoria, no lessI couldnt sleep. At thirty-four, I had nothing: a dead-end job, a husband who despised me, a sister who thought me a failure. And now, a crumbling cottage in the middle of nowhere.
I went to Ashford the next day. The cottage was worse than I rememberedweathered, neglected, the garden wild. But inside, it was clean. Fresh linen on the bed, food in the fridge. Someone had prepared for my arrival.
I slept deeply that night, soothed by the silence of the countryside. For the first time in years, I felt safe.
The next morning, I explored the house properly. In the sitting room, an old photo caught my eyethe cottage in its prime, Granddad standing proudly outside. Beneath a cushion, I found an envelope addressed to me in his handwriting.
Inside was a letter.
*My dear Emily, if youre reading this, Im gone, and youve come home. I knew it would be younot Victoria. You were always special. You must wonder why I left you the cottage and her the flat. But Ive left you far more than bricks and mortar.*
My hands shook as I read on.
*Remember how you loved stories of hidden treasure as a child? Well, my dear, I spent my life collecting it. Antiques, jewellery, coinsthings of real value, tucked away. Theyre buried under the old oak in the garden, one metre down.*
I dug until my hands blistered, until the shovel struck metal. Inside the box: gold, jewels, artefacts. A fortune.
An appraiser came the next day. *This is worth at least £200,000,* he said. *Possibly more at auction.*
James called soon after, suddenly eager to reconcile. Victoria, too, demanded her *fair share.* But I refused them both.
I restored the cottage, turned it into a home. Opened a little bookshop in the village. Helped those who needed it.
Granddad was rightI was special. Not because of the treasure, but because I knew its real worth wasnt in gold, but in the life it gave me.
Every evening, under that old oak tree, I thank him. Not just for the money, but for showing me who I really am.
