When Grandma passed, I thought the farm would be mine. Instead, it went to my cousin Felicity, who only saw dollar signs. All I got was a letter—and the right to stay on the farm. As long as I lived there, it couldn’t be sold. And in three months, Grandma’s “second part” of the will would be revealed. Felicity, who barely knew the farm, was already plotting to sell it. She even offered me money to leave. I refused. This wasn’t about cash—it was about family.

So I took a leave from my city job and moved in. Felicity tossed me the keys with a smirk, thrilled to hand over the responsibility. But the chores were relentless. Every morning I fed cows, gathered eggs, mended fences—alone.Except for Mr. Harris. He helped, joked about stubborn fences, and reminded me that Grandma believed the farm had a soul. That staying mattered. That I was doing well.

Each day, I found new resolve. This land held more than work. It held Grandma’s legacy. And I wasn’t leaving—not until I uncovered what she really meant in that letter. I could feel it—there was more to come, and I was ready