I was en route to the abortion clinic due to financial struggles and mounting debts, but I reversed course to retrieve my ID. In the mailbox was a letter: my childless aunt, whom I hadn’t seen in 20 years, left me her entire inheritance, but with one STRANGE condition…

Lavender, wood, something faintly floral. Cool and clean inside. Aunt Matilda must’ve come shortly before death, or someone tended it. Furniture covered in white sheets like ghosts. I walked rooms.

Small living room with tiled fireplace, kitchen with big wooden table and dried herb bundles from ceiling, upstairs bedroom with window to apple orchard. But biggest discovery at corridor end. Small room, only one uncovered.

It looked like a nursery. Against wall, tiny wooden crib with carved headboard, little table and chair, woven rug on floor. On shelf, old plush bear with one torn ear.

My breath caught. This was for her unborn child. Room she kept decades as shrine.

Monument to lost dream. I sat on floor by crib, leaned head against it. Here, in this room, I felt such strong connection to Aunt Matilda, stronger than in her city place.

I understood she left me not just houses and money. She passed her dream. Now my duty—to fill this room with child laughter.

That day, I made final decision. I’d stay here. Live in this house, tend this garden, raise my daughter where her great-aunt was truly happy.

Next months flew like one day. I settled in, unpacked, found new treasures. Herbarium albums, boxes of yellowed letters, cookbooks with margin notes.

Anna and Elena visited often, brought treats, advice. I met neighbors—simple, kind folks who accepted me as own. They shared garden veggies, taught stove lighting, told sweetest apples in orchard.

I walked lots, breathed clean air, felt stronger, calmer each day. Once, back from post office, I found a letter in mailbox. Cheap envelope, address in familiar bold script.

From Brandon. Wanted to toss unread, but something stopped. Sat on veranda, opened it.

Inside, single sheet torn from notebook. «Ashley,» he wrote. «I know no right to write.

Not asking money or forgiveness. Just want you to know. After you left, I raged weeks, hated you.

Then, then alone. In that empty apartment, everything reminding of you. And I got it.

Got I lost not money. Lost only person who truly loved me. I was coward, selfish.

Ruined your life, when fate gave you chance, tried ruining again. Don’t know if I can change, but want to try. Got steady job.

Simple, plumber at housing, but honest. Moved out, rent room. Just want you know I finally see what idiot I was.

Be happy, Ashley. You deserve it. Take care of baby.

I finished, sat silent long. No schadenfreude. Just quiet, light sadness.

And relief. He finally started his own hard path. I wished him luck from heart.

Burned letter in fireplace, fully releasing past. Winter passed unnoticed. Early spring, when snowdrops poked through garden snow, my daughter came.

My little Matilda. Born healthy, loud, with piercing eyes like her great-aunt’s. First months full of new cares and boundless joy.

I watched this tiny being snuffle in antique crib, knew my life brimmed with meaning. Anna became real grandma, Elena guardian angel. A year passed.

Our house filled with life. Garden bloomed roses I learned to plant from Matilda’s books. Veranda had playpen, toys scattered house-wide.

My little Mattie took first steps holding my fingers, babbled first words. I’d often sit with her on veranda, in that wicker chair, tell of strong wise woman she was named for. Woman who gave us this house, garden, happy quiet life.

And I knew she saw us. And smiled. That soft, a bit sad, but real smile.