The Chessboard My sister Lara got the house. I got a chessboard. I thought

it was a final insult from my father—until I heard something rattling

inside a piece. He always said, “Life is a chess game. You don’t win by

shouting, but by seeing three moves ahead.” At the will reading, Lara

smirked when she got everything. I left silently with the chess set.

Later, at the park, I opened the box. As I examined the pieces,

Lara appeared and mocked me. She beat me quickly, declared “Checkmate,”

and dramatically scattered the pieces. That’s when I heard it—the rattle

inside a piece. That night at dinner, Lara was unusually kind, pretending

to play the caring daughter. I placed the chessboard where she could see it.

My move. Later, I caught her in my room, breaking the pieces open. She found

a velvet pouch and thought she’d won. “So,” I said, “not just wood after all.”

She gloated. “He left the real gift inside. I solved it.” “No,” I replied.

“Zugzwang. Every move you make now only makes things worse.” I revealed the truth:

the real valuables were already safe under my name. What she found was fake.

Then I pulled out the real will: “Lara, I gave you much. Kate, you stayed.

I gave you the map, the test. If you live in peace, you share. If not,

everything belongs to Kate.” I looked at both of them in silence. The game was over. And I had won