After her mother’s death, the narrator expected sorrow but not the sense of mystery that followed. Having devoted years to caregiving, she believed her dedication would be acknowledged in her mother’s will. However, while her brother and aunts inherited millions, she received only a cream-colored envelope containing a key and an address — no explanation given.
Curious, she followed the address to a secluded stone cottage surrounded by ivy and lavender. Inside, a letter awaited her alongside a pot of blooming violets. In it, her mother expressed gratitude for her daughter’s compassion, explaining that while money could be divided, love could not. The cottage, she wrote, was a place she had kept secret — her refuge during moments of pain, reflection, and renewal. Now, it was her daughter’s turn to find peace there. The violets, her mother added, had been planted the year the narrator was born, tended in quiet devotion through every season. As she read, tears blurred the ink, and for the first time, the daughter understood: her inheritance was not measured in wealth, but in the legacy of love, solitude, and healing her mother had left behind.