Here is the conclusion to the story:
Everyone laughed at me, the sound echoing in the cold, mahogany-paneled room. My brothers were already high-fiving, clutching velvet boxes filled with gold watches and diamond rings. I stood there, humiliated, holding a dusty, black umbrella that smelled of mothballs and my grandfather’s old tobacco. Tears blurred my vision as I looked at the lawyer, who simply gave me a knowing, gentle nod and whispered, “Open it. He insisted.”
With trembling hands, I pointed the tip toward the ceiling and pressed the rusted silver catch. The springs groaned, a sound that made my cousins snicker even louder—until the canopy fully expanded with a sharp thwack.
Suddenly, the laughter died in their throats. The room went silent enough to hear a pin drop.
It wasn’t just an umbrella.
As the black fabric stretched out, dozens of small, taped envelopes and documents that had been cleverly concealed within the folds fluttered loose and dangled from the metal ribs like ornaments on a strange Christmas tree. But what caught the light wasn’t just paper—it was the unmistakable shimmer of high-value stock certificates and property deeds pinned to the fabric.
One specific envelope fell directly into my hand. On the front, in Grandpa’s shaky handwriting, it read: “For the stormy days.”
I opened it as my brothers rushed forward, their greed suddenly reignited, only to be held back by the lawyer. I pulled out a letter and a cashier’s check. The check was for an amount that made the jewelry pile look like pocket change—it was the entire liquidation of his hidden investment portfolio.
I read the letter aloud, my voice shaking.
“My Dearest Granddaughter, I knew that when I passed, the vultures would circle for the shiny things. They wanted my wealth, but you only ever wanted my time. You sat with me when I was sick, listened to my stories, and held my hand when I was afraid. I left the jewelry to your brothers because that is all they can understand—surface value. But to you, I leave the substance.
This umbrella is a symbol. I cannot be there to hold it over you anymore, but I have lined it with enough protection to ensure you never have to stand in the rain again. Included are the deeds to the estate, my savings, and the land upstate.
Use it well. Love, Grandpa.”
I looked up. My brothers were pale, clutching their handfuls of gold which now seemed incredibly heavy and useless. The lawyer smiled, closed his briefcase, and handed me the keys to the house we were standing in.
“I believe,” the lawyer said, looking at my stunned family, “that the reading of the will is concluded. The owner would like some privacy.”
I clutched the handle of my old umbrella, dried my tears, and for the first time since he died, I smiled. Grandpa was right; he was still protecting me.
