When my grandma died, she left me her paid-off house in a neighborhood that felt a little too watchful. I moved in to grieve and clean out drawers. Then I found five sealed envelopes labeled with the neighbors’ names and a note that said, “After I’m gone, deliver these.”
My grandma lived in the same small brick house for 42 years.
The porch steps had started to dipped where she sat with iced tea, watching the block every day.
Two weeks after her funeral, I moved in. I told everyone it was purely practical, but really I couldn’t bear strangers buying her place and changing everything about the house that reminded me of my Gran.
The neighborhood looked trimmed and polite, like a brochure. Still, curtains shifted when I carried things inside, and the air felt watched.
Her wind chimes hung under the porch roof, perfectly still.
Mrs. Keller lived across the street in a beige house with flawless flower beds. Grandma used to call her “the mayor” when she thought nobody could hear.
That morning Keller stood in her doorway with a stern look on her face.
“You must be the grandson,” she called, voice tight. “We like things kept tidy around here.”
I could already see conflict brewing. “I’m just moving in.
I’m not here to start problems.”
Her eyes swept my yard, over the bins and the hedges. “Your grandmother had… habits,” she said, and with that she marched off.
That night I ate a half-hearted lasagna for dinner, and every car headlight that slid across the walls made me jump.
It was difficult to get used to the house without Grandma being there.
The next morning I searched Grandma’s dresser for towels and found five sealed envelopes instead. Each one had a neighbor’s name in her neat handwriting. On top sat a small note:
I stared at the names in disbelief.
Mrs.
Keller, Don down the street, Lydia around the corner, Jared, and Marnie. Grandma had complained about them, but I didn’t think she’d have words for them after her death.
“What did you do?” I whispered to the empty room.
I promised myself I wouldn’t open them. It felt like reading her diary, and she deserved privacy even in death.
Still, she’d asked, and I couldn’t get myself to ignore her request.
Around midmorning, I walked across the street with Keller’s envelope. The sun was shining brightly, which made the foreboding in my chest even worse. Keller opened the door before I knocked.
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