At the will reading, my parents gave my sister $10 million and told me to «go earn my own.» Then grandpa’s lawyer stood up and read a secret he kept just for me. My mom started screaming…

Real. And for the first time in my life, I saw a version of my sister that didn’t scare me. She never apologized with words.

Not directly. But she shows up. That’s more than I ever expected.

And maybe, just maybe, it’s enough. We’re not sisters the way other people mean it. But in this tiny corner of a world Grandpa dreamed up, we’ve stopped pretending.

And somehow, that’s the beginning of something true. It’s been six years since the Will reading. Six years since, the front door slammed behind my parents and Vanessa, their footsteps echoing down the porch like the end of a performance no one clapped for.

I haven’t spoken to my parents since. Sometimes their names appear in emails I don’t open. In charity press releases or financial articles from Florida, where they retired early.

I don’t hate them. But I don’t miss them either. What I do think about is the work.

The Annex has grown into something beyond my imagination. What started as one converted barn is now a full research campus. Four labs, three greenhouses, and over 60 acres of trial fields.

We’ve developed drought-resistant seed varieties that now feed thousands in parts of the South where traditional crops fail. We’ve partnered with universities from Kenya to Brazil to share findings in regenerative agriculture. And just last month, I stood on a stage in San Francisco accepting a national grant for climate innovation.

The lights were bright. But I didn’t flinch. I wore a navy blue suit and Grandpa’s pocket watch tucked inside the breast pocket the one Grandma gave me last year, with initials barely faded.

Inside the lid? A tiny photo of me, age 10, standing proudly next to my honeybee communication display, grinning from ear to ear. He carried it with him every day, Grandma had said. Now, it sits on my desk at the Annex, right where morning light hits it and casts small circles of brightness over my research notes.

Some days, I talk to him. Not with words. Just in the quiet.

When an experiment fails. When a kid from the program wins a scholarship. When I remember how close I came to believing I didn’t matter…