by
When my grandmother passed away, the family didn’t gather to mourn. They gathered to claim what they believed was rightfully theirs. Faces absent for years suddenly appeared, painted with fake sorrow and thinly veiled greed. Whispers of property, money, and inheritance filled the air like smoke.
I left that day with something more precious than cash or land: her old dog, Berta. Berta was a gray-haired shepherd mix with cloudy eyes, a stiff limp, and the kind of loyalty that only comes from decades of devotion. She had been my grandmother’s constant companion, her shadow in every step.
