My name is Annabelle Thompson, and I’m 28 years old. Four weeks ago, my parents sold my grandmother’s antique piano—the one she promised would be mine—and used all $95,000 to buy my sister a brand-new Mercedes. They thought Grandma was too sick in hospice to ever find out.
They thought I was too weak to tell her.
They were wrong. When I finally told Grandma what they’d done, she didn’t cry.
She didn’t scream. She simply reached for her phone, dialed one number, and said seven words that would destroy everything my parents thought they owned.
Before I tell you what those seven words were, and what happened next at my mother’s 60th birthday party, please take a moment to like and subscribe—but only if you genuinely enjoy this story.
Drop a comment and let me know where you’re watching from and what time it is there. Now, let me take you back to the day it all started: the afternoon my grandmother was admitted to hospice. The call came on a Tuesday afternoon, right after my last piano lesson of the day.
“Eleanor’s had another heart attack,” my father said.
No greeting. No warmth.
“She’s stable, but they’re moving her to hospice. Family meeting at the hospital in an hour.”
I dropped everything.
By the time I arrived, my parents and my sister, Megan, were already huddled in a corner of the waiting room, speaking in low voices.
My father, Richard Thompson, stood with his arms crossed. My mother, Diane, clutched her designer purse like a lifeline. And Megan—four years younger, always the favorite—was scrolling through her phone, barely looking up.
“Good.
You’re here,” my father said. We need to divide responsibilities.
Not: How are you holding up? Not: This must be hard for you.
Just logistics.
“Someone needs to visit Mother daily,” he continued. “Diane and I have the business to run. Megan’s in a critical phase with Daniel’s family.”
Daniel Harrison.
Megan’s boyfriend of eight months.
Son of my father’s most important business partner. “So, Annabelle.” My father looked at me like he was assigning a chore.
“You’ll handle the visits. Your schedule is flexible.
Teachers don’t exactly work overtime.”
I wanted to say that I taught music to 37 children every week.
That I ran after-school programs. That my time had value, too. But I didn’t.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
TAP → NEXT PAGE → 👇
