When my father passed away, my daughter-in-law did something unbelievable—she threw all of our belongings onto the lawn, claiming she had inherited the house. But just minutes later, my son arrived, and karma hit her hard.

That day, as I was sorting through boxes and reminiscing over decades of memories, I received a call from my father’s lawyer about the reading of his will. Since I couldn’t attend in person, I asked my son, Matt, to go on my behalf

— “Of course, Mom,” he replied. “Are you sure you don’t need help organizing Grandpa’s things?”

— “Thanks, sweetheart, but I’ll manage,” I told him. “Today, I’m picking up his belongings from the nursing home. Why don’t you come by later and see if there’s anything special you’d like to keep as a memory of him?”

When I arrived at the nursing home, I was greeted by the familiar smell of antiseptic mixed with wilted flowers—a combination that tightened my chest.

Taking a deep breath, I accepted the small, worn cardboard box containing my father’s belongings from a young nurse.

— “Here you go, ma’am,” she said in a polite but detached tone, as if she had done this a hundred times before.