In the quiet aftermath of my grandmother’s passing, I found Berta on the porch, her eyes fixed on the doorway, as if loyalty alone could bring her back.

The house was in chaos.

Voices clashed, rising over the hum of old arguments resurfaced.

Inside, relatives I barely recognized argued over who deserved what.

It was as though the reading of Grandma’s will had torn open old wounds.

“She really didn’t leave anything for anyone,” someone muttered, disbelief mingling with indignation.

I felt like a ghost, floating between the lines of a story already told.

The weight of what wasn’t said, what wasn’t given, pressed heavily on my chest.

I needed air.

Slipping out to the back porch, I found a moment of stillness.

Berta, Grandma’s old dog, sat there, her eyes fixed on the doorway.