09/15/2025
Before she died, Grandma called me into her room. Her hands trembled, but her voice was steady.
"Sweetheart, after I'm gone, promise me you'll move my rosebush. Dig it up after a year. Don't forget."
I nodded through tears. Then she added, "And the house β it goes to you and your mother. The lawyer has my will."
But at the funeral, everything collapsed. My aunt, who always resented Grandma and never visiter her, showed up draped in diamonds and holding a different will. "THE HOUSE IS MINE. MOM LEFT IT TO ME," she declared.
It was the home where Mom and I had lived our whole lives, where we cooked, cleaned, and cared for Grandma. We searched everywhere for the will Grandma promised us, but it was gone. My aunt had money, lawyers, and power. Fighting her was hopeless. So we packed our lives into boxes and left in silence, while she started renting out "her" new property.
Still, I couldn't forget Grandma's words about the rosebush. One evening, I called my aunt. "Can I at least take her roses? I'd like to plant them at the cottage we rent now."
She scoffed. "Roses? Take them. I don't care."
I reached out to the tenants β two young women renting the house β and they kindly agreed to let me come by.
The yard felt strange when I returned. The house no longer felt like home, but the rosebush still stood proud, blooming. I knelt and dug, carefully loosening the roots. But then my shovel struck something hard.
Not a root. Not stone.
My heart pounded as I brushed dirt away with trembling hands.β¬οΈ