When my grandfather died, I wasn’t expecting much. My mother always called me the one who lived “below potential”—no Ivy League degree, no wealthy spouse, no glamorous job to brag about at Thanksgiving.

At twenty-seven, I worked part-time at a bookstore and painted on the side. I was happy, but in my family’s eyes, that was failure.

The will reading was held in a wood-paneled office that smelled faintly of old books and polish. My cousin Blake got an investment account.

Uncle John got antique jewelry and gold coins. My sister Meredith, who hadn’t called Grandpa in five years, got stocks and a Rolex. I sat quietly in the back, expecting nothing.

Then the lawyer cleared his throat. “To Clara,”—my name—“I bequeath the property deed to my farm, along with all rights and responsibilities therein.”

A murmur rippled through the room. “That place?” a cousin scoffed.

Blake snorted, “Hope you got a tetanus shot!” I just took the envelope, my fingers trembling.

The last time I’d seen that farm, I was eleven.

It sat near the county line, where the roads narrowed and trees bent low.

A week later, curiosity outweighed hesitation. I drove four hours with trash bags, gloves, and a cheap rake. The farmhouse was in bad shape—half the roof caved in, porch sagging, vines crawling up the chimney.

“Well,” I told the empty yard, “guess it’s you and me, Grandpa.”