My mother died of cancer when I was a child, and my grandmother became my world. She packed my lunches, taught me to cook, and sat by my bedside whenever I was sick. She wasn’t just my guardian—she was my home.
When she passed away, her will was simple. She left me the only thing she owned: the little house I grew up in.
That’s when my aunt and her daughter, Lydia, suddenly started showing up. These were the same people who only ever came around on Christmas to collect gifts, who never once helped with Grandma’s groceries or doctor’s appointments.
A few weeks later, Lydia called me out of the blue.
“I need a favor,” she blurted out.
“What is it?” I asked, already uneasy.
“Grandma kept a package with my documents. I need them urgently for an important meeting.”
I frowned. “Can it wait? I’m leaving on a business trip tomorrow.”
“NO!” she snapped. “These documents are really important. Just leave me the keys. I’ll only need a few minutes.”
I didn’t have time to dig through Grandma’s closets for whatever she meant, so I gave in. I slipped the keys under the rug before heading to the airport.
When I came back the next day and pushed open the door, I froze.
The smell hit me first—rotten food and sour milk. Wrappers and cans littered the floor. My hands shook as I walked down the hall and opened Grandma’s bedroom door.
The room looked like a war zone. Trash covered the carpet. Greasy wrappers stuck to the dresser. Pillows were shredded, feathers floating in the air. Someone had smeared paint across the walls, covering Grandma’s delicate wallpaper with chaotic streaks.
My chest tightened. “No, no, no…”
I dialed Lydia’s number, my voice trembling.
“WHY DID YOU DO THIS TO GRANDMA’S HOUSE?!”
Her answer made my jaw drop.
“Oh, don’t be so dramatic. I had friends over. We needed a place to party. Honestly, you should be thanking me—I’m giving that dump some life.”