Inheriting Grandma’s duplex should’ve been straightforward. Amanda got the second floor, and I got the first, with the garden and pool. But the house held a secret neither of us was ready for.
After our grandmother passed away, my sister Amanda and I were handed what some would call an “inheritance.” Others might call it a treasure.
Grandma decided to leave us her duplex.
I was awarded the first floor, garden, and pool, while Amanda was handed the second floor. At first glance, it seemed fair. Then Amanda opened her mouth.
“Why do YOU get the garden and the pool?
I’ve always wanted those!” she declared dramatically, her voice echoing in the notary’s quiet office. The poor man shuffled his papers awkwardly, clearly rethinking his life choices.
“You know I grew up here,” I reminded her. “Grandma and I spent every season in her garden.
It’s… sentimental.”
Amanda rolled her eyes. “Sentiment doesn’t pay the bills.
Do you even know how much it costs to maintain a pool? You’ll be broke by June.”
She paused, an idea visibly taking shape. “Let’s combine the house.
Share the pool. Think of the savings! I have money for that.
But you… don’t be silly!”
I shook my head, sensing the trap. “Your family can come to swim in the pool if you care.
As for the bills… I’ll manage.”
Amanda smiled too sweetly, like a cat about to pounce. “Suit yourself, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
***
A week later, I moved in.
If you’re picturing a warm, welcoming, sisterly reunion, let me stop you right there. The first few days were quiet, but then Amanda’s kids found their way onto my balcony.
By “found,” I mean they launched an all-out assault with juice boxes and candy wrappers. It was like living under a sugar-fueled siege.
“Oops,” Amanda said one evening, leaning over the railing when I confronted her.
“Kids will be kids.”
I gritted my teeth. “They’re not MY kids.”
The noise wasn’t much better. Mornings started with the thundering of what I could only assume was a herd of elephants.
Afternoons brought the rhythmic thud of a basketball indoors.
And evenings?
Bowling. Yes, bowling. Upstairs.
Then came the final straw.
I was enjoying a rare moment of peace on my snowy patio, a glass of mulled wine in hand, when a muddy sneaker tumbled from Amanda’s balcony, landing with a “plop” in my pitcher.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
Tap READ MORE to discover the rest 🔎👇
