The farmhouse had always been quiet—but after Grandpa Earl’s funeral, that silence felt heavier than ever. For twenty-two years, it had just been the two of us, building a life from routine, resilience, and quiet loyalty. He raised me after my parents died, trading his retirement for school runs and scraped knees. That house wasn’t just wood and nails—it was everything we had left.
Then Marla showed up.
I hadn’t seen my cousin in years, not once during Grandpa’s final days. But suddenly, there she was in the kitchen, stirring her coffee and scanning the place like it was already on the market. Before the week was over, she made her intentions clear: sell the house, split whatever we could get, and move on.
But I wasn’t ready to let go.
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