When my grandmother’s will was read, I felt my world crumble. The family farm I’d worked on since childhood – waking before dawn, toiling in the fields – went to my city-slicker cousin Felicity instead. All I received was a mysterious letter allowing me to stay temporarily and a cryptic note about a “second part” of the will in three months.
Felicity couldn’t hide her excitement about selling to developers. “Take the money and leave,” she sneered, already counting her profits. But I couldn’t abandon the land that held generations of memories. Taking leave from my city job, I threw myself into maintaining the farm, determined to prove my worth.
The days were grueling – feeding animals, repairing fences, tending crops. Only Mr. Harris, a kind neighbor, offered help and wisdom. “Your grandma knew what she was doing,” he’d say cryptically. Then disaster struck – the farmhouse burned to the ground. Felicity arrived immediately, pressuring me to leave the “worthless” land.
But I stayed, living in the barn, working the fields with blistered hands. When the fateful will reading came, the truth emerged: Grandma had planned this all along. The farm would go to whoever truly cared for it. Felicity’s shocked face when the attorney revealed her arson attempt was priceless. The land was mine – along with a budding romance with Mr. Harris. Grandma’s wisdom prevailed after all.
