I was the punchline for months. Grandma’s will came and went, and while my siblings paraded around with deed copies and jewelry appraisals, I went home with… a plant. Her favorite, sure—spindly and stubborn with sun-faded leaves—but still. A plant. My brother called it “potted pity.” My sister asked if I needed help “keeping it alive, at least.” I laughed with them. What else do you do when you look like the only grandchild who didn’t matter? Years later, on moving day, the plant was the last thing left in my apartment. I stared at it on the windowsill, the...
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