The House Grandma Left Behind
Inheriting Grandma’s duplex should’ve been simple. My sister Amanda got the second floor. I got the first, with the garden and pool. But the house held a secret neither of us saw coming.
When our grandmother passed away, Amanda and I were left with what some would call an “inheritance.” Others might call it a trap wrapped in sentimental wallpaper.
It sounded like a dream: a beautiful old duplex. I was given the first floor, complete with the lush garden and sparkling pool. Amanda got the second floor. At first, everything looked fair. But then Amanda opened her mouth.
“Why do YOU get the garden and the pool? I’ve always wanted those!” she shouted, loud enough to make the notary’s glasses fog up. The poor man shuffled his paperwork like he wanted to vanish into the manila folders.
I kept my voice calm. “You know I grew up here. Grandma and I spent every season in that garden. It’s… sentimental.”
Amanda let out the biggest eye-roll of the century. “Sentiment doesn’t pay the bills. Do you even know how much it costs to keep a pool running? You’ll be broke by June.”
Then she paused. I could practically hear the gears turning in her mind. “Let’s just combine the house. Share the pool. Think of the savings! I have money for that. But you… don’t be silly!”
Yeah. Right.
I shook my head. “Your family can come swim if you want, Amanda. But I’ll handle the bills myself.”
Her smile turned fake-sweet, like cotton candy laced with vinegar. “Suit yourself. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Moving Day
A week later, I moved in. If you think that meant a warm sisterly welcome with hugs and homemade cookies, think again.
At first, it was quiet. But that didn’t last long. Amanda’s kids discovered my balcony like it was a new level in a video game.
And by “discovered,” I mean they invaded. Juice boxes, candy wrappers, even a rogue rubber duck — it rained junk every day like I lived beneath a toddler tornado.
One evening, I leaned over the railing. “Amanda, your kids just threw a cookie at my cat.”
She gave me a lazy smile. “Oops. Kids will be kids.”
I glared. “They’re not MY kids.”
And the noise? Don’t get me started. Mornings sounded like elephants learning to tap dance. Afternoons brought a steady thud-thud-thud — basketball. Indoors.
Evenings? Bowling. I swear, they bowled upstairs.
But the final straw came on a freezing evening. I was enjoying some peace and a glass of warm mulled wine on my snowy patio, when a muddy sneaker fell from Amanda’s balcony. It landed with a big plop right into my wine pitcher.
A second later, I heard Amanda’s unmistakable laugh drifting down like evil confetti.
I stomped upstairs, holding the wine-soaked shoe like a piece of evidence.
Amanda opened the door, grinning like she’d just won a game show. “Oh relax, Ems. It’s just a shoe.”
“It’s your kid’s shoe. In my wine.”
“Maybe it’s a sign,” she said, almost cheerfully. “Sell me your share and move somewhere quieter. Win-win!”
I turned and marched back to my floor, teeth clenched. I had more important things to focus on — like finishing the paintings for my art exhibit. The money from my advance was already gone, and bills were piling up.
But with Amanda’s chaos raining down and inspiration completely gone, I was stuck. The real battle hadn’t even begun yet.
The Flood
It was 2 a.m. when I woke to the sound of water. At first, I thought it was rain.
But when I opened my eyes, I realized my ceiling was crying. Water dripped steadily, spreading across the plaster like an inkblot in a mystery novel.
“Oh no, no, no,” I gasped, scrambling for a bucket.
I set it under the leak, but the water laughed at me. It spread faster. Desperate, I threw on a robe and stomped upstairs, soaked and furious.
Amanda opened the door like it was just any normal night.
“Ems! What brings you here at this hour?” she said, sounding way too cheerful.
I pointed to her floor. “You’re flooding me. What happened?”
Amanda blinked, acting surprised. “Flooding? Really? Oh. Must be the pipes. This house is sooo old, you know.”
Then her husband, Jack, showed up behind her with a flashlight, holding it like a sword. “Don’t worry. We’ve called Ryan, the plumber. He’ll be here any minute.”
“Define ‘any minute,’” I snapped. “Because my living room looks like a Monet painting. Wet and ruined.”
Just then, the doorbell rang.
Ryan arrived.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, and had the cocky grin of a guy who knew he looked good holding a wrench. He walked in like he owned the place.
“Where’s the damage?” he asked.
“Everywhere,” I muttered, motioning toward the chaos.
He crouched under the sink, tools clinking, then re-emerged looking like a disappointed teacher. “The pipes are ancient. The burst upstairs? That’s just the beginning. Part of the issue is the pool.”
I blinked. “The pool? How does a pool make my ceiling leak?”
He explained, “The plumbing for the pool is poorly connected to the main system. Pressure built up over time. That pressure caused a burst.”
Amanda smiled, smug. “See, Ems? You don’t want Grandma’s duplex to crumble, do you?”
I asked the question I was dreading. “How much?”
Ryan gave me a number so huge, I actually laughed out loud.
Amanda leaned in close, whispering like the villain in a soap opera. “This wouldn’t be such a problem if you just sold me your share.”
“Like starring in your personal soap opera? No thanks.”
I returned to my apartment and stared at my paintings — now wet and warped, the colors running like my patience. I felt hopeless… until I spotted an envelope on the table.
It was my dad’s handwriting:
“Emily, please come to Christmas dinner. Let’s leave the past behind us. Love, Dad.”
I hesitated. I hadn’t spoken much to him since Mom passed, and his remarriage made everything worse. But at that moment, I needed someone — anyone.
Christmas Dinner Chaos
Dad’s house was glowing with twinkling lights and the smell of gingerbread. The path was snowy and peaceful — nothing like the battlefield I lived in.
He opened the door with a huge smile. “Emily! You made it!”
“Merry Christmas, Dad.”
He pulled me into a hug that reminded me of childhood. Just me and my dad, back when life made sense.
Inside, the living room looked straight out of a holiday movie. Amanda was already there with her kids, Jack was chatting with Dad’s new wife, Vivian, and—
Wait. Ryan?
Ryan the plumber was standing by the fireplace with a glass of eggnog, like he belonged there.
“Why is the plumber at Christmas dinner?!” I blurted.
Ryan smirked. “Funny question, considering I’m your new stepbrother.”
“Stepbrother?!” I choked.
Vivian stepped in. “Ryan’s my son. He’s here for the holidays. I had no idea you two had already met.”
“Met?” I said. “He gave me a quote that could bankrupt a millionaire.”
Ryan raised his hands, grinning. “Hey, I just fixed the pipes. Don’t shoot the messenger.”
Amanda couldn’t resist. “Honestly, Ems. What’s the point? The house is a mess. Ryan’s quote may have been high, but stop clinging to that place like it’s a masterpiece. It’s not. It’s falling apart.”
I snapped. “You don’t care about the house, Amanda. You just want to win.”
Jack cleared his throat. “Maybe we should—”
“No, Jack!” Amanda cut him off. “She needs to hear this. Emily is too stubborn!”
Suddenly, Dad’s voice boomed like thunder. “Enough! Sit down. All of you. It’s time you heard the truth.”
Everyone froze.
He pulled out a piece of paper. “This is the real will. My mother left the house to ME. Not to either of you.”
Amanda and I stared, speechless.
“I made up that fake division because I thought it would teach you two to get along. But clearly, that didn’t work. So if you can’t live there peacefully, I’ll sell it. Neither of you gets a penny.”
Silence.
Amanda had nothing to say. For once.
Spring Surprises
The next few months didn’t turn into a disaster. Amanda and I made a shaky truce — full of eye-rolls and sarcasm, but a truce all the same.
One afternoon, Amanda looked around the dining room. “This wallpaper has to go.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You offering to help?”
She handed me a scraper. “Don’t get used to it. I have limits.”
She even helped with repairs — and yes, she had opinions about everything.
I let her kids play in the garden now, but with strict rules. No juice. No candy. No shoes in the wine.
Ryan surprised me the most. He returned one afternoon with my paintings — completely restored.
I gasped. “They look… perfect.”
He smiled. “Restoration’s a hobby of mine. Figured I’d help. Also, I told the exhibit folks the delay was my fault. They agreed to review your work again.”
The House Becomes a Home
By summer, the house felt brand new.
To celebrate, we hosted a family barbecue. Amanda manned the grill like a pro. I set the table with mismatched plates that somehow worked.
Dad sat with the grandkids on his lap, laughing. Jack swapped dad jokes with Ryan. Vivian brought lemonade.
Amanda nudged me. “This isn’t so bad, is it?”
I smiled. “No. Not bad at all.”
And that’s when I understood what Grandma really left us.
Not just a house.
A second chance.
