“I had to choose the right person.”
At the will reading, her meaning became clear. My daughter would inherit everything — the house, the business shares, the investments — once she turned eighteen. Until then, I would receive just $1,000 a month “for her care.”
My daughter didn’t even flinch. She already knew. Mom had told her long ago.
That moment broke something in me — not because of the money, but because I understood the truth I’d been avoiding: my mother never wanted me to continue her legacy. She wanted to replace me. She saw in my daughter the ambition, control, and discipline I lacked.
I was never her successor — just the vessel that brought her perfect heir into the world.
Now, my daughter and I share a house but not a bond. She quotes my mother, dresses like her, even carries her planner. Sometimes when she looks at me, I see pity — the same kind my mother used to give.
I don’t want the fortune. I just wish my mother had left me something I could never buy or inherit — a real relationship with my own child.
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