Everyone in my family left the will reading with something valuable—cash, heirlooms, or investments—except for me. What I inherited was a weary, crumbling farmhouse. Yet, by accepting it, I uncovered a secret my grandfather had guarded until his last day.
When Grandad passed away, I didn’t expect much. My mother often said I was the family’s “waste of potential.” When I learned what he left me, relief washed over me briefly, quickly replaced by disappointment. But his gift turned out to be worth more than everything else my relatives received combined.
My mother’s words stung when she called me a failure for “wasting my potential.” At Christmas dinner, the very person who was supposed to love me unconditionally reminded me I lacked an Oxbridge degree, a wealthy husband, or a high-powered career to boast about.
At 27, I worked part-time in a bookstore and spent my free hours drawing. It wasn’t glamorous, but it made me happy. I was content with my quiet life and absence of grand ambitions, but to my family, it marked defeat.
The will reading was held in an ornate wood-paneled room. I sat at the back, hands clenched, trying to disappear into the surroundings. I wasn’t bitter—I was bracing myself for disappointment.
My cousin Theo opened a savings account with a hefty sum. My uncle Roland inherited Grandad’s prized coin collection and antiques, often displayed at family gatherings. My older sister Livia, who hadn’t spoken to him in years, got investments and a luxurious watch.
I remember staring at that moment, almost dazed.
It was uncomfortable sitting there, but when I asked the lawyer if my presence was necessary, he insisted it was. So there I was, feeling foolish as everyone else received something valuable.
“To Nora—” said the solicitor, a proper man named Harold, clearing his throat.
That was me.
A property deed for my grandfather’s farmhouse, with all the rights and responsibilities attached.
That was it. A wrinkled, fading piece of paper bearing a forgotten name. No cash, no stocks—just an old farmhouse.
A snicker broke the silence, still dazed and unsure what I’d been given. I guessed it was Aunt Eira.
“Isn’t that the old place?” a cousin joked. “He left her to rot?”
Laughter followed. “I bet it would cost more to demolish it than it’s worth. Nora, do you have your shots?”
I said nothing, clutching the envelope on my lap, my hands trembling slightly. Someone whispered it was perfect for a haunted house, breaking the heavy silence.
Even after the teasing stopped, my mind kept circling their words. I barely remembered the place. Grandad had lived there long ago before moving closer to us.
The last time I saw it, I was about eleven. It was in the middle of nowhere, far from the county line, with narrow roads. The trees seemed to watch me from the shadows.
Lost in thought, Livia suddenly leaned over and snapped me out of it, a smirk playing on her lips. “You could sell it for parts. Or maybe run spooky tours.”
I didn’t smile. The thought of going there alone unsettled me, yet part of me hurt that Grandad left it to me—only me. He could have sold it, given it away—but he didn’t.
He left it to me.
A week later, I loaded my beat-up car with gloves, garbage bags, and a cheap rake I bought at the store. I drove four hours through countryside, wearing old boots and pants, passing rusty gas stations and weathered mailboxes before reaching the gravel lane to the farmhouse.
The land was neglected. The house… sad. A section of roof had caved in; no one had lived there for years. The porch looked broken into. Vines strangled the chimney. For a long moment, I just stood, breathing it all in.
I spoke quietly to the air. “Well, Grandad, it’s just you and me now.”
Inside, the smell of damp and dust filled the air. Mouse droppings scattered the floor. A broken mirror leaned in the hallway. I opened windows to avoid anything sharp.
No plumbing. No electricity.
Because Grandad gave it to me, I felt I owed him care for it. It was falling apart, but I wouldn’t let it decay. Surely he had a reason, even if none of us understood. Out of respect, I decided to clean it up—try to fix what I could.
Oh, and the lawyer also said I owed back taxes! I wasn’t sure if this was Grandad’s odd humor, but it was mine now, so I committed to giving it my best shot.
To keep trespassers away, I planned to clear trash, mow the lawn, and board up broken windows.
While pulling weeds and tidying, I heard tires crunch on gravel. Wiping sweat from my brow, I stood. A sleek black SUV, much newer than this place, stopped at the gate.
The windows were so dark I could see my reflection.
The driver’s door opened. A man in a sharp suit, sunglasses, and polished shoes stepped out, clutching a leather folder.
“Can I help you?” I asked, curious but cautious.
Removing his glasses, he smiled. “Are you Nora?”
“Yes?”
He extended his hand with confidence. “I’m Gideon, with a development company. I’m here to talk about this property. Harold gave me your contact.”
“Uh… okay. What’s this about?”
He flipped open his folder, showing colorful charts, maps, and zoning plans. “Your lawyer told me you’d be here this weekend.”
I relaxed a bit. “Alright.”
“Maybe you don’t know, but there’s a new infrastructure project three miles east—a road connecting the city to the highway. Your land is prime for development.”
I blinked. Housing developments? “Like… homes?”
“Exactly. Or retail. Maybe both. We’re ready to make an offer. Your property’s in a strategic spot.”
He flipped the page, pointing. “One point two million. That’s our starting bid. Depending on timelines, we can go higher if you’re open to negotiations.”
My stomach turned, disbelief flooding me. “Are you serious?”
Gideon’s smile was that of a confident estate agent. “Absolutely.”
My heart pounded. Covered in dirt, sweating, holding a rake, I was being offered more than anything my family had ever seen.
I laughed in disbelief. “Two million for this place? Are you sure you have the right address?”
He chuckled. “No doubt. Your grandfather owned something priceless. Most people wouldn’t see it.”
After he left, I sat on the porch steps for a long time, clutching the folder. Looking up at the sky, I whispered, “You knew, didn’t you, Grandad?”
It hit me then—he gave this to me because I was the only one who visited. When I was young, I’d take the bus monthly to see him. He taught me to draw birds, grow vegetables. When he aged, everyone else forgot him. But I didn’t.
This wasn’t a burden. It was a gift.
The next week, I met with Harold and a property consultant, signed papers, and sorted back taxes—which were less than I feared.
News traveled fast.
Livia messaged me three times in one day.
“Is it true?” she asked. I ignored her.
That night, I stepped outside into the cold near the farm and looked up at the stars. Smiling, I hugged my jacket tight.
I whispered, “Thank you. In every way.”
Because Grandad didn’t just give me land—he gave me pride, hope for a new future, and a reminder that the journey matters.
From here, it’s up to me what happens next.