The moment my grandfather’s funeral ended, my mother pulled me aside. “You did a wonderful job taking care of Grandpa,” she said softly. Then, her tone changed. “I heard he left you the house. You should sign it over to your sister. She has kids. You’re young—you’ll get your own someday.”
I was stunned. That house held my childhood memories—learning how to fix things, helping Grandpa in the kitchen, and listening to his stories on the porch. It wasn’t just property—it was part of our family’s history.
“Mom,” I replied, unsure what else to say. I was still grieving, and now being asked to give up the one connection I had left to him.
She leaned in. “Your sister’s in a difficult spot. Don’t be selfish.”
Catriona appeared just then, eyes teary. “You’re my favorite brother,” she said. “Think of my boys. They need a backyard.”
I stepped outside to clear my thoughts. The creaky porch brought back memories of Grandpa—always calm, always wise. My phone buzzed. It was Grandpa’s lawyer, Silas. “We need to go over the will,” he said. “There’s also a letter he left for you, and a small bank account to maintain the home or help you in the future.”
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