I thought inheriting my grandma’s house would bring me peace. Instead, it started a war, one I never saw coming. And the person who lit the match?
My own cousin.
My name’s Elena. I’m 27, and I work as a freelance illustrator. I spend most of my days sketching in cafés or on my back porch, coffee in hand, and my dog curled up by my feet.
It’s not a glamorous life, but it’s mine, and I’ve made peace with it.
I don’t talk much about my family. Mostly because there’s not much left of it.
My mom died in a car accident when I was six. After that, my entire world shifted.
While other kids were learning how to ride bikes with their dads or going on family vacations, I was packing up my things and moving into a small cottage with my grandmother, Lily. I always called her Gran.
Gran was everything. She had this soft voice that could calm a storm, and she made the best cinnamon rolls you’d ever taste.
She was stubborn, funny, warm, and sharp as a tack even in her late 70s.
She filled the silence in our house with humming, always some old tune neither of us knew the name of.
It was her and me, through everything.
After Mom passed, my dad pretty much disappeared. I don’t even know where he is now.
Gran never said a bad word about him. She just shook her head and called him “a runner.”
Gran’s other daughter, my aunt Greta, lived in the next town over. She had a daughter, too, my cousin Lydia, who was just a year older than me.
We were never close. Lydia always acted like anything that didn’t directly benefit her was a waste of time. She kept her nails perfectly done, walked around with her nose in the air, and carried that look like the world owed her something.
They showed up for Christmas once in a while, sometimes on Easter, but they never stayed long.
They didn’t call. They didn’t help when Gran was sick or needed a ride to the doctor. It was always me.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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