I stood by the graveside, my hands buried in the pockets of a black dress that felt two sizes too small. The priest’s monotonous voice blended with the rustling wind, but I barely heard it. All I could feel was the weight of loss pressing down on me.

This should have been a moment of mourning, but the air around me was thick with something else—resentment. Grandpa had left each of us just one dollar in his will, and my family was fuming.

I wasn’t angry, though. I was empty. Grandpa wasn’t supposed to be gone. He was the only person who ever saw me—really saw me. To the rest of the family, I was just the spare kid, the screw-up. But to him, I was someone who mattered. s I looked down at the flowers scattered across his coffin, I spotted my single red rose among the sea of white daisies everyone else had placed. It was the only thing that stood out, just like Grandpa had always made me feel.