Months later, I received another letter — no return address. Inside was Grandma’s original will, not the version my parents had shown me.
This one left me everything: the house, the land, her savings, and her art. Inside was a single handwritten note:
As it turned out, my parents had forged a version of the will and tried to pass it through probate. But Grandma, always one step ahead, had mailed the real one to a lawyer in another state, instructing him to deliver it to me a year after her passing.
I could have gone public. I could have pressed charges. But instead, I mailed them a copy with a note that simply said, “I know.”
They never replied.
The House Grandma Built
I moved into Grandma’s old house — the one with creaky floors and wild gardens. Liana and I painted the walls, planted sunflowers, and filled it with secondhand furniture and laughter.
We started hosting dinners, small writing workshops, and movie nights for the neighbors. Someone nicknamed it “The Story House,” and the name stuck.
Sometimes, when the house is quiet, I still hear Grandma’s voice:
“You’ve got something to say, honey. Say it.”
And so I do.
