I never imagined my grandmother’s will would be the thing that tore my family apart—but somehow, that’s exactly what happened.

I’m 27, and until recently, my life was uncomplicated in the quiet, unremarkable way. I lived alone in a cramped apartment downtown, worked a predictable insurance job, and escaped most weekends to the one place that still felt like home—my grandmother’s little blue house at the edge of our Midwestern town.

Her name was Margaret, though no one ever called her that. “Marg” was what stuck, thanks to my cousin mispronouncing her name when he was small. She never corrected it. She never corrected much at all.

Marg was warmth in human form. She remembered birthdays without reminders, baked pies that filled the street with the smell of butter and cinnamon, and insisted on sending everyone home with leftovers—even if you’d already eaten enough for two days. Visiting her wasn’t just routine; it was grounding.

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