After Grandma died, I thought the farm would finally be mine. Instead, Felicity—my cousin who treated the land like a weekend backdrop for her Instagram posts—walked away with it. I walked away with nothing but a letter.
And yet, that letter changed everything.
The lawyer’s voice cracked through the stale office air as he read the will. I felt every word like a stone pressing down on my chest. When he said Felicity’s name, I almost laughed, sure he had read it wrong.
Felicity? The farm?
I wanted to scream that I had been there every morning, wiping sleep from my eyes as Grandma and I fed the cows. That I had sweated under the burning sun fixing fences, while Felicity showed up once in a blue moon with city friends, snapping pictures in sundresses before vanishing back to her condo.
But instead, I sat frozen.
“Are you alright, Diana?” the lawyer asked softly.
That’s when he slid me an envelope. Grandma’s handwriting danced across it, looping and certain, just as I remembered.
I tore it open.
“Dear Diana,
If you’re reading this, then you already know what I’ve done. You love this farm, and I know that. But love must be tested. That’s why Felicity’s name is on the will, and not yours.
You may stay here as long as you wish. As long as you live here, the farm cannot be sold.
Be patient, my dear. In three months, my second will is to be revealed.
With love,
Grandma”
My hands shook. Why? Why not just leave it to me outright? Did she doubt me? Or was this another one of her lessons, her riddles wrapped in love?
When I looked up, Felicity was whispering with her husband, Jack.
“Developers… sell quick… cash in…”
Her eyes sparkled like she’d just won the lottery.
Later, she came to me, her voice thick with condescension.
“Diana, take the money. You could live comfortably in the city. You’re not really cut out for this life.”
“It’s not about money, Felicity,” I snapped. “It’s about family.”
She only shrugged, bored already. To her, it was never land, never memories—only profit margins.
That night, I lay awake in the little upstairs bedroom, staring at the ceiling. The silence of the farm wrapped around me, heavy and familiar. I knew what I had to do. The city job, the apartment, the commute—they could wait. This was my place.
In the morning, I asked for a leave of absence from work. Then I picked up the keys Felicity tossed at me with a smirk. She thought she was giving me a burden. She didn’t know I was taking back my inheritance in spirit.
The days that followed were brutal. Every morning, before the first streak of dawn, I dragged myself from bed. My body screamed, but my hands knew what to do. Feeding the cows. Scattering feed for the chickens. Chasing goats back into their pen.
“Morning, Daisy,” I said, scratching the cow’s ear as she nudged me. “At least you’re happy I’m here.”
The work was endless, but it was mine.
One afternoon, while I fought with a stubborn fence post, Mr. Harris from down the road showed up with his toolbox.
“You’re at war with that fence again?” he chuckled.
“This fence hates me,” I muttered.
He set his box down and showed me the trick—how to brace it right, how to stand my ground.
“Your grandma used to say, ‘A good fence makes a happy farm.’”
I wiped the sweat from my brow. “She never told me it would drive me insane.”
Mr. Harris smiled gently. “She didn’t want to scare you off. You’re doing fine, Diana. Caring is half the battle.”
“And the other half?”
“Not giving up,” he said simply. “This place isn’t just land. It’s got soul.”
I swallowed hard against the lump in my throat. I only hoped I was worthy of it.
Then came the fire.
That night, the sky glowed an angry orange. I smelled smoke and turned to see flames licking across the farmhouse roof.
“No, no, no!” I screamed, sprinting toward it.
Neighbors rushed in, hauling buckets, shouting. Mr. Harris grabbed my arm before I could get too close.
“Diana, it’s too dangerous!”
“But the animals—”
“They’re safe,” he said firmly. “You did your part. Let it go.”
I stood helpless as the house crackled and collapsed into itself. My chest caved in with it.
“It’s gone,” I whispered.
When Felicity arrived the next morning, her voice was full of false sympathy and greedy calculation.
“Well, that settles it. The house is gone, Diana. It’s time to sell.”
“The farm is still here,” I said, trembling with anger.
She smirked. “It’s a disaster. Be sensible. You’re living in a barn.”
“I’ll figure it out,” I said through clenched teeth.
Her eyes hardened. “You’re stubborn, you know that? There’s nothing left. Stop pretending.”
And then she left, the sound of her heels clicking like nails in a coffin.
But I stayed.
Even when my city job slipped away with a curt phone call—“We can’t hold your position any longer”—I stayed.
Even when the nights were cold and the barn smelled of hay and smoke, I stayed.
Because Grandma had promised a second will. And because every inch of soil under my boots whispered the same truth:
This was mine.
And I wasn’t letting Felicity take it away.