My Mother Left Me Her House, but Only If I Let My Brother Move in – on Christmas Morning, Everything Finally Made Sense

Behind me, Quentin appeared in the hallway. His eyes landed on the writing.

His expression shut down.

I couldn’t open it then.

I carried it to the tree and slid it underneath.

It sat there like a bomb.

Every time I walked past, I felt it pulling at me.

On Christmas morning, the kids launched themselves onto my bed before dawn.

“Presents!” Mia yelled.

“Mom, get up!” Leo added, climbing onto my stomach.

We tumbled into the living room. Quentin was already there, coffee in hand.

“Santa went overboard,” he said, nodding at the pile of presents.

The kids tore through boxes and paper. Quentin helped untwist zip ties, opening plastic, putting batteries into things.

For a while, I forgot about the package.

When they finally took their toys to their rooms to play, the house went quiet.

That’s when I saw it again.

The box under the tree.

Quentin followed my gaze.

“You should open it,” he said softly.

My heart hammered.

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