When my grandfather passed away, I thought the worst pain was losing him. I was wrong. Just weeks later, my husband Michael handed me divorce papers, claiming he’d fallen out of love. I was heartbroken but accepted it—until I saw him again.
There he was, driving a sleek sports car, dressed in clothes that cost more than our old rent. The man who once struggled as a cashier now tossed money around like it was nothing. One day, he carelessly threw a $100 bill at me, as if I were a beggar. I almost walked away—until I saw it.
A tiny, faded smiley face in the corner. My drawing.
My stomach dropped. That money was from my grandfather. Years ago, he’d offered me savings for my future, but I refused, wanting to make my own way. To lighten the moment, I’d doodled that smiley face on one of the bills. Now, here it was—in Michael’s hands.
I rushed to Harrison, my grandfather’s oldest friend, who confirmed my worst fear. Before he died, Grandpa had given Michael the money, trusting him to support me. Instead, Michael took it all and left.
With Harrison’s help, I hired Logan, a lawyer who actually cared. Together, we confronted Michael. Faced with legal action, he finally admitted the truth and agreed to repay every cent.
A year later, I opened a small veterinary clinic in honor of my grandfather. Logan showed up at the grand opening—and never left. Today, he’s my husband.
I still keep that $100 bill in my wallet. It’s a reminder of the grandfather who believed in me, the man who betrayed me, and the one who helped me rebuild.
