“There’s a bank account with a sizable sum. It’s yours. He specified it’s for maintaining the house or starting your own family someday.”
I almost laughed out of disbelief. I never knew Grandpa had money saved up. He lived so modestly.
Silas continued, “Also, he wrote a letter. He wanted you to read it alone.”
I told him I’d be there first thing Monday. When I hung up, I saw my mom watching me through the window. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously.
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That night, I lay in my childhood bed, staring at the ceiling. Mom’s house felt so small and unfamiliar, even though I grew up there. I heard her talking in the kitchen with my sister, their voices hushed but intense.
“He doesn’t need that house,” Mom said. “He can get a condo.”
“He’s being selfish,” Catriona agreed. “What’s he going to do in a big old house by himself?”
My chest felt tight. I wondered if I was being selfish. But then I remembered Grandpa’s raspy voice when he told me a month before he passed, “Royston, this house is yours. Promise me you’ll take care of it. It’s been the heart of this family.”
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