I’ll never forget the day the lawyer read Grandma’s will. After a lifetime helping on the family farm, I got nothing – just a vague letter and temporary housing rights. The actual inheritance went to Felicity, my cousin who’d never gotten dirt under her manicure.
She immediately started talking to developers. “This place is a goldmine,” I overheard her say. Devastated but clinging to Grandma’s mysterious note about a future revelation, I moved into the farmhouse and worked the land alone.
The work was endless – feeding livestock before sunrise, repairing fences till dusk. Only Mr. Harris, the quiet neighbor, helped without judgment. Then the fire came, reducing the farmhouse to ashes. Felicity arrived within hours, pressuring me to leave the “ruined” property.
But I stubbornly stayed in the barn, determined to honor Grandma’s legacy. When we finally gathered for the second will reading, the truth emerged spectacularly. Felicity had set the fire! Grandma’s brilliant plan became clear – the farm would go to whoever truly loved it. As the deed was transferred to me, I caught Mr. Harris smiling. Maybe Grandma had planned that part too.
