I craved adventure and freedom, but it came at the cost of my mother’s tears. One day, she put my car in her storage unit to punish me for coming home late. I did what any 17-year-old boy would do. I stole the keys to the unit to retrieve my car, but what I found hidden there shattered my heart like glass. Do you love your mother? What a silly question to ask! I often dreaded coming home, you know. Mom’s questions fired at me the moment I walked in. “Where were you, Eddie?

Why are you late? Bla bla bla!” I couldn’t understand why she was suffocating me with her constant concern. If only I’d known then what I know now, I would’ve given anything to hear her scold me again. It was the autumn of 2021. I was 17, craving adventure and independence. Every day, it was the same routine. I’d barely get my key in the lock before my mom Charlotte’s voice would ring out from inside.“Eddie? Is that you?” I’d brace myself, knowing what was coming next. The moment I stepped through that door, she’d be there, arms crossed, eyes narrowed, brimming with tears. God, not again! I’d roll my eyes. “I was worried sick, and you don’t even care. How could you be so irresponsible?” The questions came rapid-fire, each one making me feel smaller, more suffocated. I’d try to answer, but my words always seemed to fall short. “I was just out with friends, Mom. We lost track of time.” “Lost track of time? Eddie, you know better than that. This is unacceptable. You need to start taking me seriously.” “I’m 17, Mom. You don’t need to worry about me every second.” But she did worry. Every. Single. Second. A lot lately. Weird. And it was driving me crazy. I didn’t understand then. How could I? I was too caught up in my own world, too eager for freedom to see what was really happening. But looking back now, I wish I’d paid more attention. I wish I’d seen the fear behind her questions, the love behind her worry. Because soon enough, I’d understand why she held on so tight. And when I did, it broke my heart. The day everything changed started like any other. I came home late, way past curfew. Mom was waiting in the living room, the dim light casting shadows across her face. “Eddie, we need to talk about this.” I sighed, dropping my backpack by the door. “Mom, please. Not tonight. I’m tired.” “You’re tired? I’ve been up for hours, wondering where you were and if you were safe. I haven’t eaten a thing because I was so worried about you.” “I’m fine, okay?” I snapped. “Why do you always have to make such a big deal out of everything?” She flinched, and for a moment, I saw something in her eyes. Hurt, maybe, or disappointment. But it was gone in an instant, replaced by anger. “You’re grounded,” she sternly said. “And I’m taking your car keys.” “What? Mom, you can’t do that!” I protested, but she had already turned away. “We’ll talk about this in the morning.” I stomped up to my room, slamming the door behind me. I didn’t know it then, but that would be the last time I’d slam a door in her face. The next morning, my car was gone. Just gone. I ran back inside, panic rising in my throat. “Mom! My car’s missing!” She looked up from her coffee, her face calm. “I moved it, Eddie. You’ll get it back when you start showing some responsibility.” I couldn’t believe it. “You can’t just take my car! Grandma gave it to me! You have no right—” “I’m your mother. I’m doing what’s best for you.” I stormed back to my room, furious and determined to get my car back. That’s when I hatched my plan. I knew she had a storage unit. It had to be there. I waited until she left for a doctor’s appointment, then snuck into her room to find the keys. It felt wrong, but my anger overshadowed my guilt. I had to get my freedom back. My car was my pride and love. It was my everything. When I reached the storage unit, I felt a surge of triumph. I’d show her. I’d get my car and prove I could be responsible. But when I opened that door, I FROZE.

Boxes. Dozens of them. Gift-wrapped. All neatly labeled with my name and future dates? My stomach dropped as I read the labels: “18th birthday,” “Graduation,” “First job,” “Wedding,” and “Baby Shower?” With shaking hands, I opened the box marked for my 18th birthday. Inside was a brown leather jacket, the exact one I’d been eyeing for months. How did she know? I reached for another box, this one labeled “Graduation.” It was full of letters, all addressed to me, all in her handwriting. The truth hit me hard as I sat there on the cold concrete floor, surrounded by pieces of a future Mom had carefully planned for me. The doctor’s appointments. The exhaustion. The way she’d been holding on so tight. Mom was sick. Really sick. My eyes welled up as I pieced it all together. She wasn’t punishing me. She was PREPARING. Preparing for a time when she wouldn’t be here to see these milestones. I don’t know how long I sat there, crying among the boxes of my future. All I know is that when I finally left that storage unit, I wasn’t the same person who had entered it. I hurried home in a daze, my anger replaced by a crushing guilt. How could I have been so blind? So selfish? I slipped quietly into the house, returning her keys as if I’d never touched them. The anger that had consumed me for weeks was gone, replaced by guilt. I’d been so wrapped up in my own problems that I’d completely missed what was happening right in front of me. Later that night, Mom was in the kitchen, stirring something on the stove. She looked up, surprise flickering across her face. “Eddie? I thought you’d be out with friends.” I crossed the room in three strides and wrapped my arms around her, hugging her tighter than I had in years. “Eddie? What’s wrong?” I pulled back, looking into her eyes. “Nothing’s wrong, Mom. I just… I love you. You know that, right? After Dad left us, you were my rock.” She cupped my face in her hands, her eyes searching mine. “Awwww, of course, I know that, sweetie. I love you too. And I’ll always be your rock, okay?” I helped her finish dinner that night, and we ate together at the table for the first time in months. We talked about everything and nothing, and I soaked up every word, every laugh, and every moment. As I was clearing the dishes, I turned to her. “Hey, Mom? I’m sorry. For everything.” She smiled a sad, beautiful smile, one that I’ll never forget. “Oh, Eddie. You have nothing to be sorry for.” But I did. And I was determined to make it right. Without letting her know that I knew her secret. The next few months were different. I stopped going out late and stopped fighting her on every little thing. Instead, we spent our evenings watching old movies, looking through photo albums, cooking, and just being together. One night, as we sat on the porch swing, watching the sunset, she turned to me. “Eddie, there’s something I need to tell you.” I knew what was coming, but it still felt like a punch to the gut when she said the words. “I’m sick, honey. And it’s not getting better.” I took her hand, squeezing it gently. I didn’t want to know what it was that was going to steal her away from me. “I know, Mom. How long have you known?” She sighed, looking out at the fading light. “A while now. I wanted to tell you, but I didn’t know how. I didn’t want to burden you.” “Mom, You could never be a burden. Never.” We sat there in

silence, watching the stars come out one by one. And for the first time in a long time, I felt at peace. The last few months with Mom were the best we’d ever had. We didn’t waste time on arguments or petty disagreements. Every moment was precious, and we both knew it. She told me stories from her childhood, taught me how to cook her famous lasagna, and showed me old home videos I’d never seen before. And through it all, she never complained, never showed fear. She was so strong, right until the end. And then, the day I dreaded came. Mom slipped away in her sleep, a small smile on her face. And though I thought I was prepared, the loss hit me harder than I could have imagined. Months passed. On my 18th birthday, I opened the box she’d left for me for this day. I put on the brown leather jacket, feeling closer to her somehow. And I read the first of many letters she’d written, her words bringing both tears and comfort. “My dearest Eddie,” it began. “If you’re reading this, it means I’m not there to celebrate this day with you. But know that I’m with you, always. I’m so proud of the man you’ve become.” I read those words repeatedly, hearing her voice in every sentence. It’s been two years now, but I still have those boxes. Some days, I think about opening another one, but then I stop myself. It’s like I’m saving Mom for later, piece by piece because even though she’s gone, she’s still somehow with me. I’ve learned that love doesn’t end with death. It lives on in memories, in the lessons we’ve learned, and in the person we’ve become because of that love. Mom taught me that. She taught me so much, right up until the end. And maybe, when the time is right, I’ll open the next box, and she’ll teach me something new all over again. But for now, I’m holding onto the memories we made in those last precious months. The laughter, the quiet moments, and the love that filled every second. Because in the end, that’s what matters most.aLove. Family. The time we had together. And I’ll cherish every moment, just like she taught me to. To those who’ve just finished reading my story, I have one request: go and hug your mother. Right now. There’s no force more powerful, more pure than a mother’s love. Cherish it while you can. Never take her for granted, and please, never hurt her with harsh words or thoughtless actions. You see, God doesn’t walk down from the heavens. He’s already sent us angels in the form of our mothers. Hold onto yours tight, and never let go. Because one day, like me, you might find yourself wishing for just one more hug, one more scolding… and one more chance to say “I love you.” Love you, Mom. Forever & Ever. 💔

 

I never imagined that a simple trip to my mother’s grave would change my life forever. But when I caught a stranger tossing away the flowers I had placed, I uncovered a secret that shattered everything I thought I knew. My name is Laura, and this is the story of how I discovered a sister I never knew existed.

Growing up, my mother always said, “It’s the living who need your attention, not the dead.” Still, something drew me to my parents’ graves recently. I found myself visiting them every week, bringing flowers and finding comfort in the quiet moments spent by their resting places.

I’d place flowers on my mother’s grave and then on my father’s. After a few visits, though, I noticed something……..

odd—the flowers on my father’s grave stayed untouched, but the ones on my mother’s grave disappeared, every single time

At first, I thought it might be the wind or an animal, but it started to feel too deliberate. The flowers on my father’s grave never moved, only my mother’s. I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was taking them, but who? And why?

Determined to find out, I came to the cemetery earlier than usual, hoping to catch whoever was behind it. As I approached my parents’ graves, I froze. There, at my mother’s grave, was a woman I’d never seen before. She wasn’t there to pay her respects; she was picking up the flowers I had placed and throwing them away.

“Excuse me, what are you doing?” I asked, my voice trembling with anger.

The woman turned around slowly. She looked about my age, with sharp features and an unapologetic expression. “These flowers were wilting,” she said flatly. “I’m just cleaning up.”

I felt a surge of fury. “Those were for my mother! You have no right to touch them.”

She shrugged. “Your mother? Well, I suppose she wouldn’t mind sharing, given the circumstances.”

“Sharing? What are you talking about?” I asked, utterly confused.

With a smirk, she replied, “You don’t know, do you? I’m her daughter too.”

Her words hit me like a punch. “What?” I barely managed to whisper.

“I’m your mother’s daughter, from another man,” she said casually. “I’ve been visiting this grave long before you ever showed up.”

I stood there, stunned, struggling to process what she had just said. “That’s not possible. My mother never… she would’ve told me.”

But doubt crept in. My mother had always been private, never sharing too much about her past. Could she have hidden something so significant?

The woman crossed her arms, clearly enjoying my disbelief. “Believe what you want, but it’s true. She had a whole other life, one you knew nothing about.”

I stared at her, my mind spinning. This stranger, this woman claiming to be my sister, had just turned my world upside down. Could my mother really have kept such a monumental secret from me?

I thought back to the memories I cherished, the times my mother tucked me in at night, whispering that I was her “precious little girl.” How could she have said those words while carrying the burden of another child, a secret child? The betrayal felt overwhelming.

But despite the shock, I couldn’t bring myself to hate her. My mother was still the woman who had raised me, who had loved me. Could I really condemn her for a decision she made long before I was born?

And then there was this woman—my sister. What had her life been like, always in the shadows, never acknowledged? Had she stood by this grave with a mix of love and resentment, feeling like she didn’t belong? I couldn’t imagine the pain of being kept hidden.

As I stood there, torn between anger and sympathy, I made a decision. I didn’t know the full story, but I knew one thing: we were both victims of the same secret. She wasn’t my enemy.

“I can’t imagine what it’s been like for you,” I said, my voice softening. “I didn’t know, and I’m sorry for that. But maybe we don’t have to keep hurting each other.”

Suspicion flickered in her eyes. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying we’re both my mother’s daughters,” I replied. “We both have a right to be here. Maybe we can try to get to know each other, instead of fighting.”

She hesitated, clearly unsure. “Why would you want that?”

“Because I think it’s what our mother would have wanted,” I said. “She wasn’t perfect, but she loved us both. Maybe she was just too scared to bring us together.”

For the first time, her tough exterior cracked. “You really believe that?” she asked quietly.

“I do,” I nodded. “And I think she’d want us to find peace with each other.”

She looked down at the grave, her fingers lightly tracing our mother’s name. “I never wanted to hate you,” she admitted. “But I didn’t know what else to feel. It always felt like she chose you over me.”

“I understand,” I said sincerely. “But it doesn’t have to be that way anymore. We can start over. We can try to be… sisters.”

A tear slipped down her cheek, and for the first time, she smiled—just a small, tentative smile, but a smile nonetheless. “I think I’d like that,” she said softly.

“What’s your name?” I asked gently.

“It’s Casey,” she replied.

We stood in silence for a while, side by side, two women who had been strangers just moments ago. The wind rustled the leaves, and for the first time, the cemetery didn’t feel so cold. It felt peaceful.

A few days later, we met for coffee. The conversation was awkward at first, but slowly, we began to open up. Casey told me about her childhood, how she grew up never knowing her mother. I shared stories of our mother, the good and the bad. We laughed, we cried, and gradually, a bond started to form.

We began visiting our mother’s grave together, each bringing flowers, not as a competition, but as a shared act of love. We weren’t erasing the past, but building something new—something our mother would have wanted.

Over time, I realized that this revelation had changed me, not just because of what I learned, but because it taught me about forgiveness and second chances. My mother’s secret had caused pain, but it also gave me a sister I never knew I needed.

As we stood together at the grave one quiet afternoon, I looked at Casey and felt a deep sense of peace. “I think she’d be proud of us,” I said.

Casey nodded, her hand resting on the grave. “Yeah, I think so too.”

And in that moment, I knew that even though the path ahead wouldn’t be easy, we were finally on it together.

  

My new start turned into a nightmare when my neighbor, Mr. Johnson, brazenly built a garage on my property.

With the help of determined friends and a few sledgehammers, I decided to reclaim my garden and teach him a lesson he wouldn’t forget. My name is Cynthia. I’m 42 years old and a single mother with two children.

A few months ago, we moved into a new house with a lovely garden. It was supposed to be a fresh start for us. Little did I know, trouble was waiting next door.On the first day, as we unpacked boxes, our neighbor, 

Mr. Johnson, came over. He was a tall, burly man with a gruff voice. “Hello, I’m Mr. Johnson,” he said without a smile. “I’ve got plans to build a garage, and half of it will be on your land. The previous owner agreed.” I was taken aback. “I’m sorry, Mr. Johnson, but I’m the new owner, and I don’t give my consent,” I replied firmly.

Mr. Johnson’s face turned red. “You don’t understand. It’s already agreed upon. I have documents.” “I understand perfectly,” I said, standing my ground. “But this is my property now, and I won’t allow it.” Over the next few days, Mr. Johnson came over multiple times, documents in hand, trying to convince me.

Each time, I said no. One weekend, I took my children to……..

visit my mother. We spent a lovely time with her, enjoying the change of scenery and catching up. My mother lives a couple of hours away, so it was a nice break for all of us. When we returned, I couldn’t believe my eyes. There, in our garden, was a fully built garage. It took up almost the entire space. “How could he?” I gasped.

My children looked up at me with wide eyes.“Mom, what are we going to do?” my daughter asked, her voice tinged with worry. “We’ll handle this,” I said, my resolve hardening. I thought about writing to a lawyer but decided to take matters into my own hands first. I walked around the garage, inspecting every inch. It was solidly built, but it had no place in my garden.

My frustration grew with each step.I sat down with my kids and explained the situation. “We need to make sure we get our garden back. It’s not fair for someone to take what’s ours.” My son looked up at me with determination. “We can do it, Mom.” That night, I called a few friends.

They were more than willing to help dismantle the unauthorized garage.“Are you sure about this, Cynthia?” my friend Lisa asked over the phone. “Yes, Lisa. He crossed the line. We have to do this,” I replied. I also called Mark, a strong and handy friend, and Jess, who was always up for a challenge. They both agreed to help without hesitation.“Count me in, Cynthia,” Mark said. “This guy needs to learn a lesson.” “I’ll bring the tools,” Jess added. “We’ll take it apart piece by piece.” We spent some time planning.

We needed to be careful not to damage any of my property while dismantling the garage. We decided on a step-by-step approach, ensuring that every piece was removed methodically.

We gathered at my house just as darkness fell, armed with sledgehammers, crowbars, and flashlights. My friends, Lisa, Mark, and Jess, were ready to help me reclaim my garden. The air was thick with anticipation. “Ready?” I asked, gripping my crowbar tightly. “Ready,” Lisa replied with a determined nod.We moved silently into the garden.

The garage loomed before us, a symbol of Mr. Johnson’s audacity. We set to work, our movements careful and deliberate. Each removal of a nail or plank felt like a step toward justice. “Start with the roof,” Mark suggested, his voice barely a whisper. “It’ll be easier to take apart the walls once that’s off.” Jess climbed up a ladder and began to gently pry off shingles. “This is for your garden, Cynthia,” she said.“Thanks, Jess. Let’s keep at it,” I encouraged, carefully removing a panel.

The hours passed quietly. We worked in sync, fueled by a shared sense of righting a wrong. The physical effort was exhausting, but it felt empowering. We whispered words of encouragement to each other, the night providing a cloak of secrecy.

Lisa handed me a board she’d removed. “Here, stack this neatly. We don’t want to damage anything.”“Got it,” I said, placing it on the growing pile. By dawn, the garage was nothing but a pile of neatly stacked rubble. We stood back, panting and sweaty, but deeply satisfied. “Well done, team,” Mark said, giving me a pat on the back.

“Thank you all. I couldn’t have done this without you,” I replied, grateful for their support.The next morning, Mr. Johnson stormed over. His face was red with fury. “What have you done?” he bellowed. “This is vandalism! Trespassing! You’ll pay for this!” I remained calm, standing my ground. “Mr. Johnson, you built on my land without permission.

I have documented everything, including photos and videos of your illegal construction and our careful dismantling.” “You… you can’t do this!” he sputtered, eyes wide with anger.“I already did,” I said, pointing to the clear boundary markers. “You ignored these.” Mr. Johnson’s bluster faded as he saw the evidence and my unwavering resolve.

He muttered something under his breath and retreated to his house, slamming the door behind him. Despite our victory, I knew the situation wasn’t entirely resolved. I decided to consult a lawyer to ensure all my actions were within legal bounds and to explore any additional steps I could take.

The lawyer confirmed that I was in the right. My documentation and photos provided solid evidence. Knowing this gave me peace of mind. I felt confident that if Mr. Johnson persisted, I had the law on my side. In the following days, I noticed a change in Mr. Johnson. His confrontational visits dwindled.

He seemed quieter, less aggressive. One day, to my surprise, he came over, looking apologetic.“Cynthia, I’m sorry,” he said, his voice softer than I’d ever heard it. “The previous owner gave me verbal permission, but I should have respected your ownership.” I was taken aback.

“Thank you, Mr. Johnson. I appreciate your apology.” “I’d like to make things right,” he continued. “I’ll rebuild the garage entirely on my property. And if you need any help with repairs around your house, I’m here to assist.”We reached an agreement.

It wasn’t an immediate friendship, but it was a start to a more civil relationship. I had reclaimed my garden and gained a measure of respect from Mr. Johnson. As the days went by, we began to exchange pleasantries. He even helped me fix a few things around the house.

The experience taught me a valuable lesson in standing up for myself and my rights.Reflecting on the ordeal, I felt proud of how I handled the situation.

I didn’t just get my garden back; I gained respect and a better understanding of my own strength and resilience. I knew that, no matter what, I could stand up for what was right.

 

A girl’s parents are against her marrying a nice young guy who they think is poor, so his millionaire father pretends to be broke and teaches them a lesson.

When Sam Sutton discovered a way to make an unbreakable sealant for engines everyone wanted, he never imagined that it would one day affect the love life of his then-infant son, Will.

Sam’s discovery brought immediate improvements to the family’s life as it happened. He started making a lot of money on that sealant’s patent. Sam, his wife, and his baby son moved to a lovely house and got a new car.

As the years passed, there was more money than Sam had ever imagined. His little family was comfortable, and that’s all he cared about. The extraordinary sums his lawyer kept reporting on seemed quite unreal.

Then something terrible happened to…….

Sam and his family, and all those millions piled up in the bank made no difference. Sam’s wife, Rain, became very ill. Sam kept telling doctors money was no object, but they just shook their heads

There are two things in life that money can’t buy: love and good health. Sam found out about the first in the most painful way when Rain passed away, and he’d find out about the second when Will grew up.

Being a single dad to a growing boy wasn’t easy, so maybe Sam made a few mistakes. Will was so kind, loving, and unspoiled that Sam lavished everything he could afford on him — and Sam could afford anything.

So, in high school, Will’s colleagues quickly realized that his dad was very rich and generous — and so was Will. Quickly, Will became the most popular guy — not because of his kindness or amazing good looks, but because of his dad’s money.

Girls, in particular, swarmed around Will like bees around a honey pot. At first, Will liked it, but gradually, he realized they didn’t want him. They wanted his dad’s money and all the luxury it could buy.

Will told weeping Sam that the girl he was in love with didn’t really care for him. She just cared about going along on their private plane for the Sutton family trips to Aspen, Veil, and the Bahamas.

Sam comforted his son and encouraged him to break up with that girl. The rest of Will’s senior year in high school was pretty lonely, but he had a plan. “Dad,” he said, “I have a plan.”

Sam grinned. “OK! What’s your plan?””I’m going to Yale in the fall, but I want everyone to think I’m a scholarship student.”

Sam blinked in astonishment. “A scholarship student? You? But why?”

“Well.” Will said, “if I’m poor and I wear scruffy clothes, people won’t be my friends unless they really like me. Girls won’t want to date me for our money.”

“That’s very true, Will,” Sam said. “I think that’s a brilliant plan!”

And so they put the plan in motion. Will and Sam bought all his clothes and equipment second-hand, and Will was the scruffiest, poorest-looking student you ever saw.

Money can’t buy love and good health.

The plan worked because Will quickly found many great, sincere friends, and he even met a girl he liked, and she felt the same way, too. By his third year at Yale, Will was so in love with that girl.

Her name was Eddy — for Edwina — and he decided he wanted to marry her. Sam was a little worried that Will might be too young, but he married young, too, and he’d been very happy.

So Will proposed to Eddy, and she said yes. Eddy took Will home to meet her parents that Thanksgiving, which was a disaster. Eddy’s parents, Marta and Farlow, were well-to-do and proud of their social position.

They wanted their beautiful daughter to marry a rich man, not a shabby third-year science major, no matter how smart, handsome, or funny. They were subtly unpleasant to Will but not enough that Eddy could complain.

Eddy, who had accepted Will’s proposal, proudly displayed the tiny diamond he’d given her as if it were the Kohinoor. She insisted that Will and his father join her family for the Christmas celebrations. Marta and Fallow were horrified, but they smiled, agreed, and made their plan.

Will and Sam took a Greyhound from their mansion in New Hampshire to Eddy’s family’s beach house in Narragansett to join the family for Christmas.

Eddy’s dad picked them up from the bus terminal, and the fun began. Farlow looked Sam up and down and sniffed. (Sam had gone shopping at the local Goodwill store and gone a little overboard.)

Sam didn’t look just poor; he looked almost homeless. Farlow drove them to their big house, and he talked about his wealth, his houses, and his cars. “I’ll have you know,” he said to Sam, “that I’ve done very well by my family. We live in comfort — to be honest, we live in luxury.

“Not everyone is used to that, of course, and we understand that, but we hope you and Will will be able to fit in. Christmas is very important to us.”

“It’s important to us too,” Sam said. As it turned out, Marta and Farlow’s idea of Christmas was to splurge on towers of expensive presents and show everyone they knew how successful they were.

The next few days were a nightmare. Farlow and Marta didn’t miss a chance to show Sam they believed their daughter was way out of his son’s league.

“Eddy is a wealthy young woman, Sam,” Marta said. “And her husband must be able to give her the same lifestyle. I know you’ve not done as well for Will…”

Eddy became aware of her parents’ campaign to humiliate Sam, and she was furious. So she talked with her parents. “I’m going to marry Will,” she said. “And Sam’s going to be family, so get used to it.”

“But darling,” cried her mother, “the man is a derelict! Have you seen his clothes? He’s an embarrassment.”

“Believe me, mom,” Eddy said angrily, “you are much more of an embarrassment than Sam could ever be!” Eddy could not have known that Sam was listening, and he smiled. She loved Will! He’d found his one-in-a-million girl.

That night was Christmas Eve, and when the family gathered around the tree at midnight to exchange gifts, Marta said with an unpleasant smile, “You mustn’t feel bad, Sam, we know you’re struggling!”

Marta and Farlow handed Will a box with a car key inside. “It’s an early wedding present,” Farlow said. “We thought you needed a better car. Your old clunker is at least twenty years old, Will!”

Will smiled and thanked Marta and Farlow, and they all went outside to admire the Porsche sitting in the garage with a big red bow on it. Farlow threw Sam a triumphant look and smirked. He knew that Sam could never top that gesture, could he?

Then Sam took an envelope out of his pocket. “Eddy,” he said. “Will told me you two plan to move to New York when you graduate.”

“That’s right, Sam! You know he has an offer from a New York research facility, and I have an internship at the Met…”

“Well, finding a place to live in Manhattan isn’t easy, so I hope this helps…” Sam gave the envelope to Eddy.

Farlow sneered. “What’s that? A list of homeless shelters in the Upper East Side? A guide to the Best Brooklyn soup kitchens?”

Eddy opened the envelope and gasped. “Sam!” she whispered. “Is this for real?” She showed Will the sheaf of papers inside the envelope, and Will ran to embrace his dad.

Farlow and Marta looked from one to the other in surprise. Then Eddy turned to her parents. “Sam’s given Will and I the deed to a brownstone in Tribeca. He’s given us a home.”

Marta and Farlow looked at each other, their mouths hanging open. “But…but…but…” gasped Farlow. “You’re POOR…The way you dress…You took the bus…”

“Well, Farlow,” said Sam gently. “I want my son to be loved and accepted for himself, not for the $570 million he will eventually inherit from me.”

There were no more objections to the wedding from Eddy’s parents. In fact, they became Will’s biggest fans and were very polite and respectful of Sam. The following summer, Will and Eddy married and moved to New York. When they welcomed their little daughter, Rain, three years later, Sam bought himself a house next door so he could be close to them.

Share this story with your friends. It might brighten their day and inspire them.