But not necessarily forever.
Grandma had included a condition decades earlier:
**If Amelia ever willingly chose to share the property with Linda’s child, the farmhouse would become equally theirs—not because either was entitled to it, but because Caroline’s daughter and Linda’s daughter should have the chance their mothers never had.**
Ava immediately shook her head.
“No.”
“What?”
“I’m not taking half your house.”
I laughed.
“You spent six months fixing it.”
“That doesn’t mean—”
“You also put fourteen thousand dollars of your recovered trust money into the roof.”
She looked at Grandpa.
“You told her?”
“He’s terrible at secrets,” I said.
Grandpa looked offended.
I held out my hand to Ava.
She stared at it.
“You’re serious?”
“You were my sister for twenty-four years.”
“Technically cousin.”
“Don’t ruin the moment.”
She laughed through her tears.
Then she took my hand.
That was when Grandpa gave us one last surprise.
“The farmhouse isn’t the most valuable part of the property.”
Ava and I turned toward him.
He pointed past the trees.
Years earlier, Grandma had rejected several offers from developers.
We’d assumed it was sentimental.
It wasn’t.
A renewable-energy company had recently determined that the surrounding land bordered one of the county’s most strategically valuable transmission expansion corridors.
They wanted a long-term lease.
Not the farmhouse itself.
Only part of the fields.
The offer?
**$186,000 a year.**
Split between us.
Ava’s mouth dropped open.
I stared at Grandpa.
He smiled.
“Your grandmother always did have good instincts.”
But the money wasn’t the real ending.
That came later in the afternoon.
Ava and I sat together on the newly repaired porch.
My white SUV was parked in the driveway.
Her old sedan sat beside it.
She nudged me.
“So… can I borrow your car?”
I slowly turned toward her.
She held a straight face for two seconds before bursting out laughing.
I threw a porch cushion at her.
