THE DAY I INHERITED MY GRANDFATHER’S HOUSE—AND MY FAMILY TURNED ON ME

But something unexpected happened. One afternoon, a neighbor I’d only seen in passing came by. Her name was Maribel, a kind woman in her fifties. She brought a pie and said she missed Grandpa’s stories. We sat on the porch, sharing memories. She told me how Grandpa always fixed her fence without asking for anything.

Word spread that I was living there. Soon, neighbors I’d never really known offered help. One brought fresh vegetables from his garden. Another helped me repair a leaking pipe. It felt like the neighborhood itself was welcoming me.

One evening, as I sat watching the sun set, Maribel joined me again. She told me, “Your grandfather would be proud. He was always worried about this house staying in the family.”

I smiled for the first time in weeks. “Thank you. That means a lot.”

Then one morning, I found an envelope tucked into my mailbox. It was from my mom. Inside was a letter: “Royston, I don’t understand your decision. But maybe I don’t need to. I just hope you’ll forgive me someday.”

My heart softened. I called her right then. She picked up, her voice shaky. “I’m sorry, Mom,” I whispered. “I never wanted to fight. I just wanted to honor Grandpa.”

She was quiet for a long time, then sighed. “I know. I just wanted everyone to be okay.”

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