Inheriting Grandma’s duplex should’ve been simple. Amanda got the upstairs. I got the downstairs, including the garden and pool. Fair enough—until we realized the house had secrets neither of us were prepared for.
After Grandma passed, Amanda and I were left what some would call a blessing and others, a test of patience: her duplex. I received the first floor along with the backyard and pool, while Amanda got the second floor. On paper, it looked balanced. That is, until Amanda spoke up.
“Why do you get the garden and the pool?” she exclaimed at the notary’s office, scandalized. The poor guy looked like he wanted to vanish.
I reminded her, “I grew up here. I spent every season in that garden with Grandma. It means something to me.”
Amanda scoffed. “Sentiment doesn’t pay pool maintenance. You’ll be broke by summer.” Then she smiled slyly. “Let’s merge the property, share the pool. Think of the savings. I have the money for it. You… not so much.”
I declined, recognizing the trap. “Your family’s welcome to swim. I’ll handle the costs.”
She gave me a grin that screamed “this isn’t over.”
When I moved in a week later, the quiet didn’t last. Amanda’s kids quickly turned my balcony into a war zone of juice boxes and candy wrappers.
“Oops,” Amanda called down when I complained. “Kids, you know?”
I gritted my teeth. “They’re not my kids.”
Between the thundering footsteps, impromptu indoor basketball games, and late-night upstairs bowling (yes, bowling), my nerves were fried.
Then came the shoe.
One quiet winter evening, I was sipping mulled wine on my patio when a muddy sneaker landed—splat—in my pitcher. Amanda’s laughter followed from her balcony.
I stormed upstairs, holding the soggy shoe like Exhibit A. “Really?”
She opened the door with a smirk. “Relax. It’s just a shoe.”
“In my wine.”
She shrugged. “Maybe it’s a sign. Sell me your share. Move somewhere quiet.”
I walked away. I had bigger things to worry about—like finishing the paintings for my upcoming exhibition. But between Amanda’s chaos and my dwindling inspiration, I was falling apart.
Then at 2 a.m., I heard it. Water. I thought it was rain… until I saw the ceiling crying in slow motion.
Panicked, I raced upstairs, soaked and furious. Amanda answered the door cheerfully. “Ems! What brings you by?”
“You’re flooding me.”
She blinked. “Old house. Must be the pipes.”
Her husband Jack peeked out, holding a flashlight like he was in a sitcom. “Don’t worry, we called the plumber. He’s on his way.”
“Great. Because downstairs looks like Monet’s ‘Water Lilies,’ minus the charm.”
Enter Ryan: tall, broad-shouldered, and annoyingly smug. With a wrench slung over his shoulder, he strolled in like he owned the place.
After examining the mess, he declared, “The plumbing’s ancient. The pool’s connected wrong and causing pressure. That’s what burst the pipes.”
Amanda gave me that I told you so look. “See? The pool’s your problem.”
I braced myself. “How much?”
He named a price high enough to induce a nervous laugh. Amanda leaned in. “Could’ve avoided this if you’d just sold me your half.”
“Yeah, thanks for the reminder,” I muttered.
Back in my ruined apartment, I stared at my destroyed paintings. My exhibition dreams? Gone. Then I spotted a forgotten envelope on the table.
It was from Dad.
“Emily, come to Christmas dinner. Let’s leave the past behind. Love, Dad.”
We hadn’t been close since Mom died. His remarriage only deepened the silence. But now? I needed support.
His house was straight out of a holiday movie—lights twinkling, the smell of gingerbread everywhere. He opened the door and beamed. “Emily! You came!”
Inside, everyone was already there: Amanda, her kids, Jack… and Ryan, standing by the fireplace, sipping eggnog like he belonged.
“You?” I blurted. “Why is the plumber here?”
Ryan grinned. “Funny you should ask. I’m your new stepbrother.”
My jaw dropped. “Come again?”
Vivian, Dad’s new wife, stepped in. “Ryan’s my son. Didn’t know you two had met!”
“He gave me a quote that could bankrupt a millionaire,” I snapped.
Ryan shrugged. “Jack needed help. I needed work. No hard feelings, right?”
Amanda snorted. “Honestly, Ems, why are you so attached to that dump of a house? It’s falling apart.”
“It’s not the house. You just want to win, Amanda.”
Jack awkwardly tried to change the subject, but Amanda wasn’t done. “Emily refuses to accept reality!”
“Enough!” Dad boomed, silencing the room. “It’s time you both know the truth.”
He held up a paper. “This is Grandma’s real will. She left the house to me. I faked the division, hoping it’d bring you two together. Clearly, that failed.”
Amanda and I sat speechless.
“If you can’t live there peacefully,” Dad said, “I’ll sell it. Neither of you gets a dime.”
The shock was sobering. We didn’t say much that night.
But slowly, things shifted.
Amanda and I struck a fragile truce. She started helping around the house—even scraped off old wallpaper with me (while grumbling). I let her kids play in the garden—under strict rules: no snacks, no mess, no shoes over the railing.
Ryan surprised me the most. He restored my paintings—perfectly. You’d never know they were damaged.
“They’re better than before,” I admitted.
He smiled. “I also spoke to your exhibition team. Told them the delay was my fault. They agreed to take another look.”
By summer, the duplex looked like a new home. To celebrate, we hosted a barbecue. Amanda grilled. I set the table. Dad laughed with his grandkids. Jack and Ryan swapped dad jokes over lemonade.
As I handed out drinks, Amanda nudged me. “Not bad, huh?”
I smiled. “Not bad at all.”
And in that moment, I realized Grandma didn’t just leave us a house—she left us a second chance. A reminder that, even in the chaos, family can still find its way back home.