When Grandma died, I thought the farm would be mine. Instead, it went to Felicity—my cousin who barely visited and only saw dollar signs. All I got was a cryptic letter and the right to stay on the farm… for now.
The will crushed me. I’d spent years helping Grandma—feeding animals, working the fields—while Felicity just used the place for her social media. Still, Grandma’s letter hinted there was more to come in three months.
Felicity wanted to sell immediately. She offered me money to leave. I refused. This farm was my home.
Then, disaster struck—the farmhouse caught fire. Felicity saw it as a final excuse to sell, but I stayed. Even after losing my job, I couldn’t walk away.
With the help of Jack Harris, our neighbor, I rebuilt. Each day was backbreaking, but with every fence fixed and seed planted, I felt closer to Grandma—and more certain I belonged.
When the second part of the will was read, Felicity was ready to claim her prize. But Jack revealed the truth: Felicity had set the fire. Caught, she had no choice but to admit it.
The lawyer handed me the deed. The farm was mine.
I’ve since made it my life, just like Grandma did. And when Jack finally asked me to dinner, I said yes. For the first time, the future looked as full of promise as the land around me.