When Grandma passed, I was certain the farm would be mine. I’d poured my heart into it—muddy boots, early mornings, and laughter under the porch light. But when the will was read, everything went to Felicity, my cousin who treated the farm like a social media backdrop. I was left with a letter and the right to stay—temporarily.
Felicity was already planning to sell. Numb, I opened Grandma’s letter. It revealed a hidden clause: the farm couldn’t be sold while I lived on it, and a second part of the will would be read in three months. I didn’t understand the test, but I couldn’t walk away.
I took a leave from my city job and returned. Farm life was grueling—early chores, aching muscles, and doubts—but the animals gave me comfort. Mr. Harris, our neighbor, helped and reminded me of Grandma’s trust. “This farm’s got a soul,” he said. “And you belong here.”
Then came the fire. The house was gone in minutes. Felicity arrived cold and smug, offering money and a city escape. I refused. I’d lost everything—except the land and my will to fight. Fired from my job, I moved into Mr. Harris’s guest room and worked harder than ever.
Weeks passed. I rebuilt fences, tended animals, and slowly found peace. Jack—Mr. Harris—became my steady support. Then, the second part of the will arrived. Felicity smirked, but her face fell when Jack handed over a receipt showing she’d bought gasoline the day of the fire.
The farm was mine.
Now, I walk the land with purpose, hearing Grandma in the wind. The farm is no longer just a place—it’s home. And when Jack smiled and said, “How about that dinner I promised you?” I finally smiled back. “I think I have the time.”
