The letter explained everything. Decades earlier, my mother had a daughter, Rebecca, when she was young and unmarried. Her own father forced her to give the baby up, and my mother never forgave herself. Years later, my brother found documents proving Rebecca had a son, but he hid them, afraid a stranger would claim part of the inheritance. Mom discovered the truth only after her illness and quietly hired the lawyer.

Lucas had been placed in foster care after Rebecca died when he was six. He never knew his grandmother existed. The Thursday visits had been no accident, because Mom had traced him and orchestrated the pharmacy meeting herself, desperate to know him before she died. She proposed marriage only so she could legally protect him and give him a home, never understanding how it sounded. Lucas wept as he read that part.

The lawyer revealed the will’s final terms. Lucas inherited the house, and half of the savings, which my mother had divided equally between him, my brother, and me. My brother shouted that it was a fraud, but the lawyer produced a DNA test Mom had arranged, confirming Lucas was her grandson. My brother finally admitted he had hidden the documents and apologized in a broken voice.

I walked over and hugged Lucas, and told him he was my nephew and family. He moved into Mom’s house and finished his schooling. My brother eventually paid for Lucas’s tuition as an apology, and the two now share Thursday dinners. Every birthday, Lucas places yellow roses on Mom’s grave, and he wears the silver locket beneath his shirt.