When Grandpa passed away two years ago, a year after Grandma, he left the estate solely to me. I wasn’t surprised. I had been their caretaker when no one else bothered to call, much less visit. I drove them to their appointments, handled the grocery runs, managed the never-ending paperwork. Tyler? He’d show up on Christmas morning, take photos for Instagram, and vanish until the next holiday. But when the will was read and my name was the only one on it, I saw the look my mom gave me—that tight-lipped, disappointed twist of her face, like I had taken something that wasn’t mine. That was the moment I realized the storm was coming.

The house was the big piece. A gorgeous old Victorian with deep red bricks, tall windows, and ivy crawling up the sides like something out of a movie. It was a historic property passed down through three generations, and my grandparents had kept it in near-perfect condition. The neighborhood had exploded in value over the last decade. Every house around it had been gutted and flipped, but my grandparents never sold, and now it was mine.