Back home, Deborah gently cleaned the couch, brushing away the dust of old memories. That’s when her fingers found a hidden pouch stitched beneath the cushion—inside, gleaming jewels and a folded letter written in Tessa’s familiar hand. The letter spoke of gratitude, of quiet strength, of a love Martha never understood. The treasures were real, but the greater gift was knowing her grandmother had seen her—truly seen her.

Martha, so focused on fortune, missed the only inheritance that mattered: love. Deborah, patient and kind, had earned something no will could name. With tears in her eyes and her children laughing in the next room, she sat on the couch that once held her grandmother’s warmth. And there, surrounded by quiet joy, she knew she had been richly blessed.2)