The funeral home smelled like carnations and furniture polish. Fifty mourners filled the viewing room, their voices a low murmur of condolences and shared memories. My grandmother’s casket sat at the front, surrounded by flower arrangements that would have made her shake her head at the waste of money.

Eleanor Hartwell had been ninety-three—sharp as a tack until the end—and the family matriarch in every sense. She’d built Hartwell Industries from nothing in the 1960s, a manufacturing company that now employed three hundred people and generated fifty million dollars annually. She’d been CEO until she was eighty-five, then chairman until last year.

I stood near the window in a black suit, watching my younger sister, Isabelle, work the room. She wore designer black, her grief perfectly styled, accepting hugs and sympathy with practiced grace. At twenty-nine, she’d never worked a day at Hartwell Industries—never worked anywhere, really—except as a social media consultant for companies that hired her because of our family name.

I was thirty-four. I’d started at Hartwell as a floor manager at twenty-two. I worked my way up to operations director and currently held fifteen percent of the company shares, a gift from Grandma on my thirtieth birthday for actually giving a damn about the business. Isabelle had received a Mercedes for her thirtieth.

My parents held court near the casket, my father’s hand perpetually on my mother’s back, both of them playing the role of grieving children. My father had worked at Hartwell for thirty years in middle management—competent, but unremarkable. My mother had never worked there at all. Neither of them held company shares. Grandma had been very deliberate about that.

In the corner, the lawyer, Richard Morrison, sat reviewing documents. He’d been Grandma’s attorney for forty years. I’d caught his eye earlier; he’d given me a small, knowing nod that made my stomach tighten with apprehension.

My father cleared his throat loudly. Conversations quieted. He stepped to the center of the room near the photo display of Grandma’s life.

“Thank you all for being here today,” he began, his voice heavy with emotion. “Mother was an incredible woman—strong, generous, family-oriented.” Murmurs of agreement rippled through the room. “She believed in family unity above all else,” he continued, “in taking care of each other, supporting each other.”

His eyes found mine across the room, and my stomach dropped even before he said the next words.

“Which is why I’m so proud that my daughters have decided to honor her memory in a special way. Catherine and Isabelle have decided to combine their inheritances,” my father announced, “to split everything equally, as true sisters should. Catherine will be transferring half her company shares to Isabelle, ensuring they both have equal stake in Mother’s legacy.”

The room erupted in approving murmurs. Several people smiled at me. Someone patted Isabelle’s shoulder. My mother beamed. I stood frozen, my coffee cup halfway to my lips.

My father gestured toward me. “Catherine, would you like to say a few words about this decision?”

Fifty faces turned toward me expectantly. I set down my cup carefully.

“I didn’t make that decision.”

The murmurs died instantly.

“Catherine,” my mother said sharply, her smile fixed. “Don’t be modest.”

“I’m not being modest. I never agreed to transfer my shares to Isabelle.”

My father’s expression hardened. “We discussed this last night. You told me—”

“I told you last night that you thought it would be appropriate for Isabelle and me to have equal standing in the company,” I cut in. “I said I’d think about it. That’s not an agreement.”

Isabelle’s perfect composure cracked. “Cath. Come on. This is what Grandma would have wanted.”

“Really?” I said. “Then why did she give me shares and not you?”

Silence—heavy, uncomfortable silence.

My mother stepped forward, her voice dropping to a hiss. “How dare you embarrass your sister at your grandmother’s wake. Have you no decency?”

“I have plenty of decency,” I said. “What I don’t have is an obligation to hand over assets I earned to someone who’s never set foot in the company.”

“Earned.” Isabelle’s voice rose, shrill. “You think you earned those shares?”

“Grandma gave them to me after I worked at Hartwell for eight years,” I said, not taking my eyes off her. “After I learned every department. After I proved I actually cared about the business she built.”

I looked at Isabelle directly. “What have you done to earn shares, Isabelle?”

“I’m family,” she said. “That should be enough.”

“Being family doesn’t entitle you to my portion of Grandma’s legacy.”

My mother’s face flushed red. “You selfish, ungrateful—” Her voice rose to a scream. “After everything we’ve done for you—after we raised you, educated you, loved you—and this is how you repay us? By hoarding wealth while your sister has nothing.”

“Isabelle has a trust fund worth three hundred thousand dollars and an apartment you pay the rent on,” I said quietly. “That’s hardly nothing.”

“That’s not the same as company shares,” my father shouted. “Those shares represent power, influence, a future.”

“Exactly,” I said. “Which is why I’m keeping mine.”

My mother was trembling with rage. “You will transfer those shares to your sister.”

“Or what?” I interrupted. “Or you’ll disown me? Disinherit me? I already have my inheritance. Grandma made sure of that.”

“Your grandmother would be ashamed of you,” my mother spat.

Something in me went very cold and very calm. I looked across the room to where Richard Morrison sat, watching the scene with an unreadable expression.

“Richard,” I called out. “Can you come here, please?”

The lawyer stood, gathering his documents. He was seventy, gray-haired, and had a reputation for being unflinchingly honest. He crossed the room slowly, his footsteps loud in the sudden silence.

“Catherine,” he acknowledged.

“My parents seem to believe they know what Grandma wanted regarding her estate,” I said. “Perhaps you could clarify.”

Richard looked at my parents. “Would you like me to read the relevant portions of Mrs. Hartwell’s will now?”

“I had planned to do the formal reading tomorrow at the office,” he continued, “but given the circumstances—”

“That won’t be necessary,” my father said quickly. “This is a private family matter.”

“Actually, Richard,” I said, keeping my voice steady, “I think everyone here should know exactly what Grandma wanted, since my parents are making claims about her wishes in front of fifty witnesses.”

Richard adjusted his glasses. “Very well.”

He pulled out a document and cleared his throat. The room went absolutely silent.

“From the last will and testament of Eleanor Marie Hartwell, executed March 15th, 2024,” Richard began. “Regarding company shares and Hartwell Industries: to my granddaughter Katherine Marie Hartwell, I leave an additional twenty percent of company shares, bringing her total ownership to thirty-five percent.”

Gasps echoed through the room. I felt the blood drain from my face. I’d known about my original fifteen percent, but this—

Richard continued, his voice carrying clearly. “To my granddaughter, Isabelle Grace Hartwell, I leave no company shares. Isabelle has demonstrated no interest in the business and lacks the work ethic necessary to honor its legacy. She will receive a trust fund of five hundred thousand dollars, to be distributed in increments over ten years, provided she maintains employment and demonstrates financial responsibility.”

Isabelle made a strangled sound. My mother’s hand flew to her mouth.

“Furthermore,” Richard read, his expression neutral, “I explicitly forbid any transfer, sale, or gifting of company shares between family members for a period of ten years following my death. Catherine’s shares are hers alone. Any attempt to coerce, manipulate, or pressure her into transferring them will result in those shares reverting to the Hartwell Industries board of directors.”

He looked up from the document. “Eleanor was very clear about this. She even included a handwritten note, which I’ll read now.”

“If my son and daughter-in-law try to force Catherine to give Isabelle her shares, they are to be reminded that I knew exactly what I was doing. Catherine earned this. Isabelle did not. End of discussion.”

The silence was deafening.

Richard folded the document. “There’s more, but that covers the relevant portion regarding company shares.”

My father had gone pale. My mother looked like she might faint. Isabelle was crying—real tears this time, mascara streaming down her face.

“That’s not fair,” Isabelle sobbed. “Grandma always loved Catherine more.”

“Eleanor loved you both,” Richard said quietly. “But she respected Catherine. There’s a difference.”

My father found his voice. “This is—there must be a mistake. Mother wouldn’t—”

“There’s no mistake, Mr. Hartwell,” Richard said. “I’ve reviewed this will dozens of times over the past two years. As Eleanor refined it, she was absolutely certain about her decisions.”

“Two years,” my mother whispered. “She planned this two years ago.”

“She began planning it five years ago,” Richard said. “Actually, after Isabelle asked her for money to fund a lifestyle brand that never materialized.” His expression softened slightly. “Eleanor hoped Isabelle might develop interest in the actual business. When that didn’t happen, she made her final decisions.”

I felt like I was underwater. Thirty-five percent. I’d be one of the major shareholders, potentially on the board.

“There’s one more thing,” Richard said, looking at me. “Eleanor left a private letter for you to be delivered after the will reading. But given the circumstances, perhaps you’d like it now.”

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

He pulled an envelope from his portfolio and handed it to me. My grandmother’s elegant handwriting spelled out my name.

“I’ll give you privacy,” Richard said, then addressed the room. “The formal reading will be tomorrow at ten o’clock a.m. at my office. All beneficiaries are required to attend.”

He returned to his corner seat. The room remained frozen, everyone staring at me.

My hands shook as I opened the envelope. The letter was two pages in Grandma’s distinctive script.

“My dearest Catherine,

“If Richard is giving you this at my wake, it means your parents tried to pull exactly the stunt I anticipated. I’m sorry you had to deal with that during your grief, but I knew you were strong enough to handle it.

“Those shares are yours because you earned them. You showed up. You learned. You cared—not because you wanted inheritance. You did it years before I gave you shares. You did it because you genuinely valued what I built.

“Isabelle is my granddaughter and I love her, but she’s never understood that money without purpose is meaningless. Your parents enabled that. I tried to correct it. I failed. But I won’t compound that failure by rewarding her lack of effort.

“You’re going to feel guilty. Don’t. You’re going to feel pressure to share. Don’t. Those shares represent decades of my work and years of yours. They’re not poker chips to divide equally for fairness. They’re a responsibility.

“The board will vote you on as VP of operations next month. Say yes. Lead. Build. Make Hartwell Industries something I’d be proud of for another fifty years.

“And Catherine, walk away from anyone who makes you feel guilty for succeeding, even if they’re family. Especially if they’re family.

“All my love,

“Grandma.”

I read it twice, tears blurring the words. When I looked up, my mother was staring at me with something between fury and desperation.

“What does it say?” she demanded.

“It says she knew exactly what she was doing,” I said quietly.

“This isn’t over,” my father said, his voice tight. “We’ll contest the will. No court will uphold this kind of favoritism.”

“Actually,” Richard called from his corner, “Eleanor anticipated that, too. She underwent psychiatric evaluations six months ago specifically to demonstrate her mental competence. She also documented her reasoning extensively. Any contest will fail—and will cost you considerably in legal fees.”

My father’s mouth opened and closed soundlessly.

Isabelle pushed past people toward the exit, sobbing loudly. My mother hurried after her, calling her name. My father stood alone, looking older, suddenly deflated.

He turned to me. “Your grandmother just destroyed this family.”

“No, Dad,” I said, folding the letter carefully. “She protected what she built from people who wanted to dismantle it without earning it. Grandma didn’t destroy anything. She just stopped enabling.”

“You’re going to regret this,” he said quietly. “When you’re alone with all your precious shares and no family, you’ll regret it.”

“Maybe,” I said. “But at least I’ll regret it in a company that’s still standing.”

He walked away without another word.

The room slowly emptied. People left in awkward clusters, some offering me sympathetic glances, others avoiding my eyes entirely. Within twenty minutes, only a handful remained—Richard, a few of Grandma’s old friends, and my second cousin James, who worked in Hartwell’s accounting department.

James approached cautiously. “Hey, Cath. That was intense. Yeah— for what it’s worth, Grandma made the right call. You’ve kept that company running smoothly for years. Isabelle wouldn’t last a week.”

“Thanks, James.” He squeezed my shoulder and left.

Richard packed up his documents. “The board meeting is scheduled for three weeks from now. They’ll formally vote on your VP position. It’s essentially a formality. Eleanor cleared it with the other major shareholders before she died.”

He paused, then added, “She really thought of everything. She also established a provision that if your parents try to interfere with company operations or harass you regarding shares, they’ll be barred from company property and events.”

He smiled slightly. “She loved you very much, Catherine, and she trusted you completely.”

After he left, I stood alone in the viewing room. The funeral home staff was beginning to clean up—removing flower arrangements, straightening chairs. I walked to Grandma’s casket. Her face looked peaceful, younger somehow.

“I won’t let you down,” I whispered. “I promise.”

My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.

This is Sarah Chen, Hartwell’s CFO. Richard told me about the will. Congratulations. Your grandmother chose well. Looking forward to working with you as VP. Also, I have security footage of your parents trying to access your grandmother’s office last week. Thought you should know.

Then another text, from James.

Family group chat is exploding. Mom and dad are telling everyone you manipulated Grandma. Want me to send screenshots?

No, I typed back. Let them talk. The will speaks for itself.

I drove home through the dark, emotionally exhausted but somehow lighter. My apartment felt quiet and safe. I made tea, sat by the window, and reread Grandma’s letter.

Walk away from anyone who makes you feel guilty for succeeding, even if they’re family. Especially if they’re family.

My phone rang. Mom. I let it go to voicemail, then Dad, then Isabelle—voicemail, voicemail, voicemail. I blocked all three numbers.

Then I opened my laptop and started reading through Hartwell Industries reports—financials, projections—my company now, my responsibility, my future. For the first time since Grandma died, I smiled. Not because I’d won something, but because I’d been trusted with something that mattered, and I wasn’t going to waste that gift on guilt.