As soon as my grandfather’s funeral was over, my mother pulled me aside from the guests and said, “Son, you did such a good job taking care of Grandpa.”
“I heard he left you his house. WELL, YOU NEED TO SIGN IT OVER TO YOUR SISTER. She has little kids, and you’re a young bachelor—you’ll buy yourself a new one someday.”
My jaw dropped at her words. But instead I said, “Mom.”
I don’t even know why I said just “Mom.” I guess I was in shock. Grandpa’s house meant more to me than just walls and a roof. I spent every summer there since I was a kid. He taught me how to fix things, how to cook his favorite stew, and how to sit on the porch in silence, appreciating the world.
I tried to gather my thoughts. “Mom, Grandpa left it to me because he wanted me to have it. He told me this was his wish.”
She looked over my shoulder at the people milling around the buffet table. She whispered sharply, “Do you know how much your sister is struggling? She and her husband are drowning in debt. They need a place. You can’t be selfish.”
I swallowed hard. I didn’t want to sound selfish, but it felt like everyone was ignoring what Grandpa actually wanted.
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