I cared for my sick neighbor for a long time. She passed away and I was shocked when the police knocked on my door

I had cared for Mrs. Patterson for seven wonderful years. She was an elderly, wealthy woman, abandoned by her family despite her fortune. Though I was only her caregiver, we became family, sharing laughter, stories, and quiet moments of understanding.

Her relatives visited only when necessary, taking what they could before leaving her heartbroken. Unlike them, I stayed, becoming the daughter she never had. One day, as we watched the rain, she told me, “You’re the only real family I have.” I held her hand and whispered, “You are my family too.”

Then, just like that, she was gone. I found her peacefully in bed, holding a photograph of her late husband. Grief consumed me, but I knew what I had to do. I called her children, who dismissed me instantly, vowing to handle everything.

At the funeral, her family put on a show of grief, their eyes gleaming with anticipation. I stayed behind, mourning the woman who had meant everything to me. That night, as I sat in my small room, a sharp knock shattered my sorrow.

Two police officers stood at the door. “Are you Grace?” one asked. My heart pounded as they led me to Mrs. Patterson’s house. Her entire family was there, along with a lawyer and notary. The air was thick with tension.

Victoria, her daughter, pointed at me in fury. “She manipulated my mother!” she shrieked. The lawyer silenced the chaos and began to read the will.

“To my children, I leave my forgiveness, for they left me long ago. To my grandchildren, the hope that they understand the value of love and loyalty. And to Grace, my friend and family, I leave everything—my house, my land, my wealth.”

The room erupted. Victoria screamed, Mark lunged at me, but security intervened. “This is fraud!” they shouted. The lawyer remained firm. “Mrs. Patterson expected this. She left letters, photos, and records proving her decision.”

I clutched the box of memories, realizing why she had insisted on capturing our moments together. She had known what would happen after her death.

As her family was escorted away, the lawyer placed a hand on my shoulder. “She loved you, Grace. She wanted you to have a home.”

I stood in the now-empty house, filled with her love, her laughter, her kindness. She had given me more than a home—she had given me a family. Even in death, she was with me. And her so-called family? They were left with nothing but regret.