I thought inheriting my grandma’s house would bring me peace. Instead, it opened a door to a war I never expected. And the one who lit the fire?
My own cousin. My name is Elena. I’m 27 years old and I work as a freelance illustrator.
My life isn’t flashy—I spend most days in little cafés sketching characters in my notebook, or sitting on the back porch with a steaming cup of coffee while my dog curls up at my feet. It’s a quiet life, not glamorous at all, but it’s mine. And for the longest time, I was content with it.
I don’t usually talk about my family. Mostly because there isn’t much left to talk about. When I was just six, my mom died in a car accident.
That day ripped my whole world apart. Other kids my age were going on vacations with their parents or having their dads teach them how to ride a bike. Me?
I was stuffing clothes into a bag and moving into a small white cottage with my grandmother, Lily. I always called her Gran. Gran was everything to me.
She wasn’t just my guardian—she was my safe place, my warmth, my anchor. She had this gentle voice that could calm a storm, and she baked cinnamon rolls so good they felt like hugs in food form. She was sharp, funny, stubborn, and always humming old songs neither of us knew the names of.
It was just me and her, against the world. My dad? He vanished after Mom died.
I couldn’t even tell you where he is now. Gran never insulted him, though. She’d just sigh and call him “a runner.”
Gran had another daughter, my aunt Greta, who lived in the next town.
She had a daughter too—my cousin Lydia, who was only a year older than me. You’d think we’d be close, but we weren’t. Lydia was the type who walked around like the world owed her something.
Nails always perfect, makeup flawless, her nose tilted up like she was above everyone else. She and her mom, Greta, only showed up at our house on Christmas or Easter, and even then, they never stayed long. They never called, never offered to help when Gran was sick.
All the hospital rides, the late-night medicine runs, the doctor visits—that was me. Only me. So when Gran passed away last spring, I wasn’t shocked when her will left the cottage to me.
The lawyer handed me the paper, and my heart ached—not because of surprise, but because of the finality. The house wasn’t just wood and walls. It smelled like baked apples and lavender oil.
It held the crochet blanket she used to wrap around me during thunderstorms, and photos of my mom in her prom dress sat proudly on the mantel. That house was her heart. And now it was mine too.
It was a gray Tuesday when my phone buzzed. Lydia’s name lit up the screen. I froze.
We hadn’t spoken in months—not since the funeral, where she barely muttered a word to me. Cautiously, I answered. “Hello?”
“Hey,” Lydia said quickly, skipping all small talk.
“I need a favor. I think Grandma kept some of my documents at her house. They’re really important, and I need to get them.”
I frowned.
“What kind of documents?”
“Just… papers. Birth stuff, school stuff. I don’t know,” she rushed.
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