For years, I was convinced my neighbor existed solely to make my life miserable.
Harold next door was sharp-eyed, permanently scowling, and seemingly allergic to kindness. Complaints about my fence. Glances at my garden. “Accidental” sprays of weed killer. Small, deliberate acts of sabotage that pushed patience to the edge. I told myself to ignore him—he was bitter, lonely, bored. But when he dumped an entire mound of dirt on my rose bed, crushing months of careful work, something inside me snapped.
I stormed outside that morning, coffee spilling, fury boiling. But the driveway was full of unfamiliar cars. A neighbor standing nearby whispered, “Harold passed away last night. Heart attack.”
Shock replaced anger. The man I had planned to confront was simply gone.
Then came the twist: his attorney handed me an envelope. I was required to attend the reading of his will.
At the funeral, I replayed every petty act, every glare, every stolen moment of peace. Why me?
In a small office afterward, the lawyer dropped the bombshell: I inherited Harold’s house and property. But there was a condition—Rose Dalton, a woman I’d never met, would live with me for life. I’d care for her. Accept, or lose everything.
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