I took care of my 85-year-old neighbor for her inheritance, but she left me nothing — then her lawyer knocked the next morning with a dented lunchbox and a key I wasn’t supposed to recognize.

Inside, she poured tea that tasted like boiled weeds and got straight to the point.

“I’m dying.”

I nearly choked.

She rolled her eyes.

“Oh, don’t be dramatic. I’m eighty-five, not twelve. The doctor says maybe a few years, maybe less. I need help with groceries, medicine, rides, and small repairs. I don’t have anyone reliable.”

“And what do I get?”

She watched me for a moment.

“When I’m gone, what I have becomes yours. I’ll leave everything to you.”

I stared at her.

“Are you serious? You barely know me.”

“I know enough.”

It sounded ridiculous, maybe even dangerous to believe. But I needed money, and some lonely part of me wanted her to be telling the truth. So I held out my hand.

“Deal.”