Why I’m Refusing to Share Grandpa’s High-Five-Figure Legacy With Cousins Who Skipped His Final Years

Part I

Chapter 1: Farewell at Rustwood Cemetery

I stand under a slate-gray sky that presses down like an unwanted hand on my shoulder. The air smells of damp earth and wilted flowers as I watch Grandpa Red’s casket being lowered into the ground. My grandfather’s real name was Raymond, but everyone in Rustwood called him Red—partly for the shock of auburn hair he had in his youth, partly for the clay-red soil he loved to till in his little garden behind the cottage. He used to joke that the town named itself after him: Rustwood, where even the earth had a ruddy hue. 

I clutch a folded program from the funeral service, my fingers trembling. The paper is soft from the drizzle, just like my eyes are soft with unshed tears. I promised myself I wouldn’t break down completely in front of the sparse crowd of mourners. Grandpa had a modest service; he wasn’t one for fanfare. Still, I recognize the faces of a few Rustwood neighbors and the members of his old veterans’ group scattered among the headstones. They’ve come to pay respects to the man who fixed their fences and told animated war stories at the diner every Sunday after church. 

Aunt Iris stands a few paces away, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. She’s in a stiff black dress she probably dug out of the back of her closet for today. Her expression is composed, but I catch the tightness in her jaw as she glances over the casket. Is she grieving her father or just enduring the ritual? It’s hard to tell. 

My cousins are here too—Tyler shifting his weight impatiently in a cheap suit, Lila clutching the strap of her designer purse with an air of discomfort as if funerals are foreign territory. They both look appropriately somber, but I know better. They hadn’t visited Grandpa in years. Not when his knees gave out and he needed help around the house, not when the doctors diagnosed him, not during the long quiet afternoons when he sat in that old rocking chair feeling the world shrink around him. 

I swallow a bitter lump in my throat. It’s not the time to dwell on resentment, but it’s hard not to feel it simmering. Grandpa Red used to ask me every now and then if I’d heard from Tyler or Lila. “They’re busy with their lives, I’m sure,” he’d say, trying to smile it off. But I saw the hurt in his eyes each time they missed a holiday or forgot to call on his birthday. Over the last few years, I was the one by Grandpa’s side—taking him to appointments, cooking his favorite beef stew on Sundays, listening to his same jokes over and over just to hear him laugh. I was the one who held his hand in the hospital that final night when he was more skin than spirit. 

My chest tightens at the memory. I blink away the sting in my eyes and stare at the polished wood of the coffin. This is goodbye. My last living grandparent, gone. And with him, an entire chapter of my life closes—lazy summer days picking apples from his trees, late nights poring over dusty photo albums in the attic, the faint smell of pipe tobacco that clung to his cardigan. All of it now reduced to memory and an aching hollow space inside me. 

The pastor says the final prayer. I bow my head, though my mind is elsewhere—floating through scenes of Grandpa teaching me how to whittle a stick into a flute by the river, his weathered hand steady over mine. The tear that finally escapes and rolls down my cheek is warm against the chill of the autumn breeze. 

When I lift my gaze again, I notice Lila stepping forward to toss a white rose onto the casket as it’s lowered. It lands gently on the wood. Lila’s face is turned away, but I catch the delicate profile—she looks genuinely sad for a moment. Perhaps she regrets not coming to see him. Tyler hangs back, rubbing his hands together to fend off the cold, his expression unreadable. 

As the small gathering disperses, Aunt Iris approaches me. “Mara,” she says quietly, touching my elbow. Her breath smells faintly of peppermint and coffee, comforting and nervous at once. “You gave a lovely eulogy, dear. He would’ve been proud.” 

“Thank you,” I manage to say. My voice is raw from holding in sobs. I did my best to capture Grandpa’s spirit in words, sharing how he taught me to find constellations on summer nights and how he served his country bravely, earning that Purple Heart he kept tucked away in a drawer. I left out the parts about how lonely he felt at the end—that was a private hurt between us. 

Aunt Iris opens her mouth like she wants to say more, but then thinks better of it. Instead, she just squeezes my arm. “If you need anything…,” she murmurs. 

I nod. “I know. Thank you, Aunt Iris.” 

Tyler and Lila are hovering a few steps behind their mother. Tyler gives me a stiff nod of acknowledgment. Lila musters a weak smile. We exchange all the requisite polite words: “Take care,” and “So sorry for your loss,” though it feels hollow from them. Because where were they when he was alive? The unspoken question hangs in the cool, misty air between us. 

Soon it’s just me standing by Grandpa’s fresh grave under the iron-gray sky. The cemetery is quiet now. Even the birds are silent, as if paying respect. I crouch down and place my hand on the damp soil, still loose from the burial. 

“Bye, Grandpa,” I whisper. My voice trembles. “Thank you… for everything.” My fingers curl into the earth slightly, and I press a kiss to the tips before gently touching the soil again—a final kiss goodbye. 

I stand up, my legs unsteady. In the distance, I see Aunt Iris ushering Tyler and Lila toward the parking area, their black figures blurred by my tearful eyes. They didn’t wait for me. That’s fine. I prefer to linger alone a moment. 

As I turn to leave, I steal one last glance at the headstone—Raymond “Red” Sullivan, beloved father and grandfather, 1932-2025. The chiseled letters form a solid final statement, but I know the real story of Grandpa’s life lives on in those of us who truly knew and loved him. 

I inhale the earthy scent of fallen leaves and damp grass, filling my lungs with the essence of Rustwood in the fall. It’s a scent that always meant home to me. With a heavy heart but squared shoulders, I walk away from the gravesite, alone but determined to carry Grandpa’s memory forward. And though I don’t yet fully realize it, I’m determined to protect the legacy he entrusted to me—no matter the storm that might rise in my family because of it.

Chapter 2: The Reading of the Will

Three days after the funeral, I find myself sitting in a leather armchair that swallows me a little too much, in the dimly lit office of Mr. Howard Belmont, Grandpa’s attorney. The room smells of old paper, lemon polish, and something faintly sweet—pipe tobacco, perhaps. Bookshelves line the walls with dusty volumes of law, and a heavy mahogany desk anchors the space. The rain taps lightly at the window behind Mr. Belmont’s silhouette as he shuffles a stack of documents. 

Aunt Iris sits to my left, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Tyler and Lila flank her on either side, and I can feel the tension radiating off them. Tyler jiggles his foot restlessly, making the sole of his shoe squeak on the hardwood floor with each bounce. Lila picks at an invisible speck on her pristine ivory blouse, her face drawn. I don’t think any of us have spoken more than a hello since we arrived. 

Mr. Belmont clears his throat gently. He’s an older man with wispy white hair and kind, clever eyes behind wire-framed glasses. He and Grandpa were friends as well as lawyer-client; I remember Grandpa teasing him about being “his attorney and his accomplice” whenever they’d go fishing together and sneak a flask of whiskey along. Today, however, Mr. Belmont’s demeanor is all business, albeit laced with sympathy. 

“Thank you all for coming,” he says, voice low and respectful. “I know it’s been a hard week for the Sullivan family. Your father—” he nods to Aunt Iris, “—and grandfather—” his eyes flick to us cousins, “entrusted me with his last will and testament. He updated it fairly recently, and I’ll proceed to read the pertinent sections aloud.” 

I swallow hard and brace myself. Even though Grandpa had hinted at certain things, hearing the official words feels weighty and final. I glance at Aunt Iris; her lips press into a thin line. Tyler has stopped jiggling his foot and is now staring intently at Mr. Belmont. Lila’s eyes are fixed on her manicured hands. 

Mr. Belmont begins, the legal phrasing oddly formal for the man I knew as Grandpa Red: “I, Raymond Sullivan, a resident of Rustwood in the state of…, being of sound mind and disposing memory, do hereby declare this to be my last will and testament….” His voice is measured, and I find myself drifting in and out of the jargon, waiting for the parts that matter. 

He goes through a few small bequests first. To the Rustwood Historical Society, Grandpa left his collection of local postcards from the 1940s. That makes me smile faintly; Grandpa did love the town’s little museum. To his old army buddy, Frank Medina, he left the bronze compass they carried through the war together. And then Mr. Belmont pauses, adjusting the page. 

“…To my daughter, Iris Sullivan Dempsey,” he reads, “I leave my late wife’s engagement ring and the family photo albums, with the hope that she will pass them down in the family.” Aunt Iris inhales sharply; a tear slides down her cheek. That must be Grandma’s ring—I realize Grandpa never mentioned it to me, probably because it was meant for Iris all along. I can’t tell if Aunt Iris is relieved or disappointed that this is what she’s been specifically given. She dabs her eyes, but she stays silent. 

Mr. Belmont clears his throat. “And to my granddaughter, Mara Sullivan,” he continues, voice gentle now, “I hereby bequeath the remainder of my estate, including my cottage at 15 Oak Lane and all its contents, as well as all funds in my savings and investment accounts, which currently total…” He glances up over his glasses at me with a faint, reassuring smile. “…which currently total approximately ninety-four thousand dollars.” 

I hear Lila suck in a breath. Tyler sits up straighter as if he wasn’t paying attention until money was mentioned. My own heart kicks in my chest. The cottage and everything… I knew Grandpa wanted me to have the house—he’d told me as much in one of our late-night talks when pain and medication made him candid—but I hadn’t realized how much he’d saved. Ninety-four thousand dollars is a lot more than I expected. 

Mr. Belmont continues, “It is my expressed wish that Mara use these assets to secure her future and remember our time together.” I bite my lip hard, fighting a sudden urge to cry. Trust Grandpa to phrase it like that, even in a will—it’s not just money, it’s our time together he’s reminding me of. Each dollar a proxy for a memory, perhaps. 

The room has fallen very quiet except for the rain ticking at the windowpane. Mr. Belmont finishes with the usual lines about executors and probate. It barely registers with me because I’m hyper-aware of the stares drilling into the side of my face. 

Aunt Iris finally breaks the silence. “Howard,” she says softly, addressing Mr. Belmont by his first name. “Is that… is that everything?” Her tone is polite, but there’s a quiver beneath it. 

Mr. Belmont folds the will papers neatly. “Yes, that covers the dispositions. Raymond was quite clear in his wishes. Mara is named as the sole primary beneficiary of the remainder of the estate. I will of course provide you each with a copy of the document. As the executor, I’ll be working with Mara to ensure his instructions are carried out.” 

I nod numbly, still processing. Sole primary beneficiary. The words feel surreal, like I’ve won some prize I never wanted to compete for. Meanwhile, Tyler makes a noise in his throat—half disbelief, half anger. “So just like that,” he mutters. “We get nothing? After all these years being his family, we get—” He cuts himself off, possibly at a warning touch from Aunt Iris, who shoots him a sharp look. 

Lila’s eyes are shiny with unshed tears. “It’s not about the money…” she says quietly, though the tremble in her voice suggests maybe it partly is. “It’s just— I can’t believe Grandpa would do this. He always talked about family taking care of family.” She turns her gaze to me, not quite accusatory, more bewildered. “Mara, did you know about this?” 

I flush. “I… He told me he wanted me to have the house, since I live in Rustwood and—” 

“And we don’t,” Tyler finishes bluntly. He’s definitely angry now. “So because you live here and played nurse, you get the whole damn inheritance?” 

“Tyler!” Aunt Iris hisses, scandalized. She gives Mr. Belmont an apologetic glance. “I’m sorry, Howard. Emotions are high.” 

Mr. Belmont offers a thin smile. “I understand. This can be a lot to take in. But I can assure you, when Raymond made these decisions, he was thinking clearly and he had his reasons. I discussed them with him at length. He—” 

“His reasons,” Tyler interrupts, voice rising. “Yeah, we know what his reasons were. Mara was attached at his hip these last few years and we weren’t. So she gets rewarded and we get punished, is that it?” 

My face burns. “It wasn’t like that,” I say, trying to keep my tone steady. “No one was trying to punish you. Grandpa—Grandpa wanted to make sure I’d be okay. He knew how much the cottage means to me.” My voice cracks slightly, remembering how I used to tell Grandpa I wanted to buy it from him someday so it’d stay in the family. He’d just chuckled and said, “Patience, kiddo.” 

Tyler lets out a derisive snort. “Right. He wanted to make sure you’re okay. What about the rest of us? We could use that money too, Mara. Lila’s got student loans. I’m trying to start a business—” 

Aunt Iris raises a hand. “That’s enough, Tyler.” There’s a taut silence. I can tell she’s biting her tongue, probably to keep her own composure. She turns to Mr. Belmont, forcing a strained smile. “Howard, thank you for your time. This is… a lot to digest. Perhaps we should adjourn for now and discuss things as a family later.” 

I exhale, not realizing I was holding my breath. My heart is hammering. I feel defensive and guilty and angry all at once—a prickle of sweat has gathered under my blouse despite the cool temperature of the office. 

“Of course,” Mr. Belmont says, standing. “Once again, my condolences on your loss. Raymond was a good man, and a friend. Mara—” he extends a gentle hand toward me as we all rise on unsteady legs, “I’ll be in touch to go over the next steps when you’re ready. There’s paperwork, but it can wait a few days.” 

“Thank you,” I manage, shaking his hand. My palm is clammy, but his grip is warm with reassurance. In that moment I’m deeply grateful he’s the one handling Grandpa’s affairs—it means Grandpa truly trusted him. 

Tyler is already halfway to the door, barely contained frustration in the stiffness of his shoulders. Lila stands and smooths her skirt absently, avoiding my eyes. Aunt Iris gathers her purse and the copy of the will Mr. Belmont handed her. 

“Take care, Mara,” Aunt Iris says softly as they prepare to leave, her tone unreadable. It’s the same thing she said at the funeral, but now it carries a different weight—maybe disappointment, maybe sorrow. I can’t tell if she blames me. I can’t tell what any of them are really thinking beyond the obvious shock. 

“You too,” I reply awkwardly, hovering in the doorway as they file out into the hallway. “I’ll… I’ll talk to you later.” 

Tyler doesn’t even glance back. Lila gives me one last look—something like hurt confusion in her eyes—then she follows her brother. Aunt Iris pauses, placing a hand on my arm briefly. Her touch is light but I feel the tension in it. “We’ll be in touch, honey,” she murmurs. “Family should talk. We’ll figure this out.” 

Figure what out? I wonder, but I just nod. “Okay.” 

Then she’s gone, and I’m left standing in the empty conference room with the ghost of Grandpa’s voice in my ears and a thick envelope of legal documents in my hands. Outside the door, I hear Tyler’s voice low and seething: “This is bullshit.” Lila shushes him, a soft hush, and Aunt Iris says something too quiet to catch. Their footsteps recede. 

I release a breath I didn’t know I was holding. My reflection in the darkened window glass looks back at me: a pale, tired 27-year-old woman in a black dress clutching a dead man’s last wishes. I don’t feel victorious or lucky. I feel like I’ve just been handed something fragile and immense—something that may very well tear my family apart.

Chapter 3: Family Confrontation

The clouds outside Mr. Belmont’s office have thickened to a dreary, soaking mist by the time I push open the heavy oak door and step into the parking lot. Cold drizzle kisses my face. I pull my thin jacket tighter and hurry toward my car, heels clicking on wet asphalt. My mind is a blur of emotions—grief, shock at the will, anger at my cousins’ reactions, and a creeping guilt that I can’t quite shake. 

I spot Aunt Iris’s navy blue sedan parked a few rows away. To my surprise, they haven’t left yet. Tyler is pacing beside the car, one hand raking through his dark hair, the other balled into a fist at his side. Lila sits in the back seat, face in her hands. Even through the drizzle, I can hear the murmur of Aunt Iris’s voice—she’s standing outside the driver’s door, phone pressed to her ear, perhaps talking to Uncle Roger (her husband, who didn’t come to the funeral due to a work emergency, if I recall). 

I consider making a beeline to my car and leaving them be, but before I can skirt past, Tyler notices me. His eyes flash and he steps forward, blocking my path like a drawn bow ready to snap. “Mara,” he calls out, not bothering to hide the bitterness in his voice. “Hold up.” 

Aunt Iris lowers her phone, ending her call abruptly as she notices the confrontation brewing. She says something to Lila, who wipes her eyes and gets out of the car as well, though she hovers by the open door. Within seconds, I’m effectively cornered by my own relatives in the spitting rain of the parking lot. 

I force a calm expression. “Yes?” I ask, though my voice comes out smaller than I intend. 

Tyler steps closer, and I catch a whiff of his cologne—sharp, with a hint of alcohol underneath. He might have had a liquid courage shot earlier to steel himself for this meeting. “So that’s it, huh?” he says. “Grandpa’s gone and you just take everything?” 

I bristle at his phrasing. “I’m not ‘taking’ anything, Tyler. It was Grandpa’s decision. You heard the will just like I did.” 

He laughs, a single humorless bark. “Right. Sure. It’s all just legal mumbo jumbo to you, huh? The old man’s decision. But family’s family, Mara. How can you think this is okay?” 

Aunt Iris interjects, her tone placating but firm. “Tyler, please. Let’s have a civil conversation.” She turns to me, rain droplets speckling her glasses. “Honey, we’re all still reeling. I’m sure you are too. This isn’t what any of us expected.” 

I nod slowly, my guard still up. “No, it isn’t. I… I didn’t know exactly what he’d decided. I only knew he wanted me to have the cottage.” 

Lila steps forward, her eyes red-rimmed. “The cottage and everything else, apparently,” she says softly. There’s no malice in her tone, just hurt. “Mara, we’re not trying to attack you. It’s just a shock. We all thought… well, we assumed Grandpa’s estate would be divided, or at least that we’d each get something significant. That’s what’s fair, right?” 

“Fair?” The word leaves a sour taste. I clench my jaw, struggling to keep my voice even. “Was it fair that I was the only one taking care of him while you two were off doing God knows what?” The words slip out sharper than I intended, years of pent-up frustration flaring. 

Lila flinches as if I slapped her. Tyler’s face darkens. “Are you kidding me?” he snarls. “We didn’t ask you to play nurse. That was your choice.” 

“I did it because someone had to!” My voice echoes in the nearly empty lot. Aunt Iris shoots a worried glance around, as if aware of the public scene we’re making, but I can’t hold back now. “He needed family, Tyler. You could have visited. Called. Anything.” 

Tyler crosses his arms, chest puffing defensively. “I was working two jobs. Lila was at school across the country. Life happens, Mara. It’s not like we abandoned him on purpose. You act like we’re villains for not being glued to Rustwood.” 

Aunt Iris puts a hand on her son’s shoulder. “Ty, calm down.” Rainwater is dripping from her neatly combed hair onto her coat, but she doesn’t seem to notice. Her gaze flickers to me, and I see her struggling to find a middle ground. “Mara, sweetheart, I know you did a lot for Dad. We’re all grateful you were there for him. Truly. But I also know he wouldn’t have wanted his will to cause bad blood between you and your cousins.” 

I swallow hard, the lump in my throat threatening to choke me. “I don’t want bad blood either. But I meant what I said inside: I’m going to honor Grandpa’s wishes. He wanted me to have these things for a reason.” 

“And you don’t think part of that reason was because you were right there influencing him?” Tyler retorts. “People change their wills all the time because someone whispers in their ear.” 

My eyes go wide with outrage. “How dare you? You think I manipulated Grandpa? He wasn’t senile, Tyler! He knew exactly what he was doing.” 

Lila’s voice comes out in a squeak. “Ty, stop. That’s not fair to Mara or Grandpa.” She wipes at her cheeks. “Grandpa loved us all, I know he did. He just… maybe he felt closer to Mara at the end, because she was here.” 

“Exactly our point,” Tyler says, throwing up his hands. “He was closer to her, so she gets everything. And we’re left with nothing but some photo albums and a ring that Mom got.” 

Aunt Iris lets out a weary sigh. “I’d rather have my father back than any of this,” she says quietly. Her voice trembles. I believe her—whatever my feelings about the others, Aunt Iris did lose her dad. I feel a twinge of empathy seeing her eyes well up. 

We stand there in the rain, a dysfunctional little circle. My hair is getting damp, curling at my temples. Lila’s mascara is smudging. Tyler’s jaw works as he grinds his teeth. The distant sound of a car engine starting echoes from the far end of the lot. 

“Listen,” I say, softer now. “I’m sorry. This whole thing… it’s awful. I wish we weren’t even talking about money or who gets what. I miss him. That’s all I want back.” 

Lila nods, tears spilling over. Aunt Iris reaches for her hand. 

Tyler’s posture loosens a notch, but his anger hasn’t faded. “We all miss him. But we can’t just ignore reality. There’s nearly a hundred grand on the line here, plus the house. And if you think we’re just going to walk away from that because of some—some pride or something, you’re wrong.” 

My spine stiffens. So there it is, laid plain: they won’t walk away. “What are you saying?” 

“I’m saying,” Tyler says, enunciating carefully, “that the will might say what it says, but family can decide to do things differently. You could choose to share, Mara. That’s what Grandpa would want—everyone to have a piece, to benefit.” 

Aunt Iris watches me intently. “Mara, no one is asking for anything extreme. But it would ease a lot of hurt feelings if you considered splitting some of the money. A gesture of goodwill.” 

For a moment, I’m at a loss for words. There it is, their olive branch wrapped in expectation: make a “gesture” by giving them money, and then maybe we’ll all be okay. My cheeks flame. 

“He left it to me,” I say quietly. “All of it. Because I was here. Because I earned it, in a way—” 

Lila interjects, her voice pleading. “Mara, it’s not about earning. We’re not strangers or gold-diggers off the street. We’re his blood too. Don’t we deserve something to remember him by? Something from him?” Her eyes search mine hopefully. “Even a small portion of the money… or we could sell the cottage and split it three ways, so everyone has funds to help with their lives. Grandpa would have wanted us all to have a better life, right?” 

My stomach twists at the thought of selling the cottage. That little house is practically an extension of Grandpa himself. The idea of strangers living in it, or worse, it getting torn down by some developer, makes me feel ill. “I’m not selling the cottage,” I say firmly. “He entrusted it to me because he knew I wouldn’t.” 

Tyler scoffs. “Great, fine. Keep the damn cottage. But the cash? That’s liquid. You could share that.” 

Anger surges back up. “Could I? Sure. Will I? I… I don’t think so, Tyler. I’m sorry. Grandpa made his decision. I’m going to respect it.” 

Tyler’s face contorts. “Bull. You’re going to keep it because you want to, not because of some noble respect. Don’t pretend this is high ground, Mara. It’s greed, plain and simple.” 

My hand clenches around the strap of my purse so hard my knuckles ache. “How dare you call me greedy,” I hiss. “You had every opportunity to be around, to show you cared about him beyond what he could give you. You didn’t. Now you show up after he’s gone with your hand out—” 

“Okay, stop, all of you!” Aunt Iris’s voice cracks like a whip. She glances around nervously; a man with an umbrella at the far end of the lot is openly staring. Lowering her voice, she continues, “This is neither the time nor place. We’re all emotional. Yelling in a parking lot won’t solve anything.” 

Tyler exhales heavily, nostrils flaring, but steps back from me. I hadn’t realized how close he’d gotten—close enough that I instinctively stepped backward. My heart is racing. 

Aunt Iris fishes her keys from her purse. “Mara, dear,” she says carefully, “let’s all take a breath. We can talk more later, once we’ve cooled down. Perhaps we can meet tomorrow? I think it’s best if we have a proper sit-down as a family. No lawyers, just us. We’ll have coffee, talk through this calmly.” 

I look at her, rain sliding down my cheeks like tears. My dress is getting soaked. Everything in me wants to flee this situation, but I also know it’s not going away. “I… alright. Tomorrow,” I reply warily. “Where?” 

“Dad’s house,” Aunt Iris says after a second’s thought, and my heart lurches at how she still calls it Dad’s house. “The cottage. Say, 11 a.m.? We’ll bring brunch or something.” 

The cottage—my cottage now, I suppose. It feels odd to consider hosting them there, but maybe it’s fitting to have this out on Grandpa’s home turf. “Fine. 11 a.m.” 

Tyler yanks open the passenger door of their car. “This is a waste of time,” he mutters, but loud enough for all of us to hear. “She’s not gonna share a damn penny.” 

Aunt Iris shoots him a warning look as Lila climbs back into the back seat. “Ty, please.” She turns to me one last time. “Thank you, Mara. We’ll see you tomorrow.” 

I nod, biting the inside of my cheek. Without another word, I hurry away toward my own car. My whole body is trembling now that the adrenaline is ebbing. I fumble my keys, drop them, swear under my breath, then finally get the door unlocked and slide into the driver’s seat. 

As I start the engine, I watch through the blurred streaks on my windshield as Aunt Iris’s sedan pulls out. Tyler’s face is stony in profile. Lila is turned away, looking out her window as if to avoid even seeing me. 

When their car disappears down Rustwood’s main street, I let out a shuddering breath and lay my forehead on the steering wheel. Rain patters on the roof like a thousand tiny fingers tapping, and I realize my cheeks are wet not just from the weather. 

Grandpa, I think desperately, I wish you were here. You’d know how to make this right. But he’s not here. It’s just me now, and the weight of his legacy sitting heavy in my hands, threatening to rip open the seams of my family.

Part II

Chapter 4: Night in the Attic

That night, the cottage feels emptier than ever. I light a few of Grandpa’s old oil lamps—he always kept them around for the frequent Rustwood power outages—and their warm glow flickers against the knotted pine walls. The electricity is actually working just fine, but I can’t bring myself to flood the house with harsh overhead light. The gentle amber of the lamps is more comforting, as if Grandpa’s spirit dances in the shadows they cast. 

I try to sleep, but my mind churns. Each time I close my eyes, I see Tyler’s angry scowl or Lila’s tear-streaked face, and I hear their voices accusing me, pleading with me. In the silence, doubts creep in like spiders. Am I doing the right thing? Grandpa believed I was, I remind myself. He trusted me. Still, the conflict with my family gnaws at me. 

Close to midnight, I give up on the pretense of rest. Dressed in Grandpa’s old flannel robe (which still smells faintly of him: a mix of laundry soap, tobacco, and peppermint), I wander the house aimlessly. My bare feet pad on the cool wooden floorboards. Eventually, I find myself standing at the bottom of the narrow staircase leading up to the attic. 

The attic had always been our special hideaway. Grandpa would take me up there on rainy afternoons to explore dusty boxes of the Sullivan family past. “Every trinket has a tale,” he’d say. As a child, I half-believed the attic was enchanted—full of ghosts of ancestors and magical old things. Now those ghosts might be the guidance I need. 

I tug the chain for the attic light. It flickers on, illuminating motes of dust dancing in the air. The familiar smell of aged paper, cedar wood, and mothballs envelops me. The eaves are low; I have to stoop in places to avoid cobwebby rafters. Stacks of cardboard boxes and old chests form a miniature cityscape in the cluttered space. 

Carefully, I navigate to a trunk I know well—an old army footlocker with rusted metal corners. Grandpa’s name, “R. Sullivan,” is stenciled on it. I kneel and unlatch it with a creak. Inside lie the relics of a life long before me: neatly folded uniforms, a faded green beret, a stack of letters tied with a fraying ribbon, a leather-bound journal, and a scattering of loose items that glint in the lamplight—medals, an old pocket watch, a few foreign coins dulled by time. 

My breath catches. I gently lift a medal— the Purple Heart, its ribbon still vibrant. I remember the day I found it as a kid; Grandpa had quickly taken it from my hands and set it aside, saying only, “That one’s for things I’d rather forget.” I understood later what he meant, that he was wounded in war. I reverently set the medal down and pick up one of the coins. It’s large and silver, with a hole in the center—a Japanese 5 yen coin. Another coin next to it is smaller, coppery, with unfamiliar characters; perhaps Korean. These must be from his deployment overseas. I roll the Japanese coin between my fingers. Grandpa once told me that coin was considered a good luck charm. He’d carried it through the war and kept it ever after. 

Placing the coins aside, I turn to the bundle of letters. My fingers hesitate—these were likely personal, maybe even private between him and Grandma or others. But he kept them, all these years. If there are answers or wisdom to be found, perhaps it’s here. With a deep breath, I untie the ribbon. The letters exhale a slight smell of ink and old paper, as if opening a tomb of words. 

The top letter is addressed in neat cursive to “My Dearest Raymond” and dated June 1953. I realize it’s from Grandma—her name, Eileen, signed at the bottom in flowing script. She would have been his young wife then, waiting at home with infant Aunt Iris while Grandpa was stationed in Korea. I skim the letter gently, not wanting to invade their intimacy too much. She writes of mundane things—the garden, the baby—trying to keep his spirits up. But one line stands out, etched with emotion: “I pray every night for your safe return. Our family needs you. Little Iris needs her father, and I need my husband. Come back to us when this terrible war is over.” A tear slips down my cheek. Grandma’s wish was granted—he did come back, built a life here. But now he’s gone for good, and I sense that generational yearning: to have our loved ones close and safe. 

I set Grandma’s letter aside and sift deeper. Here’s one from Grandpa’s side, unsent drafts maybe, written in a youthful scrawl I barely recognize. It’s a letter to his own father (my great-grandpa), describing the chill of winter at the army camp and thanking him for some cookies and socks sent in a care package. The next is a letter to his best friend describing an intense battle and how he saved that bronze compass from a wrecked tent, vowing to give it to Frank if he made it home. I smile faintly, remembering that bequest. 

Then, near the bottom of the stack, I find something intriguing: a letter addressed to someone I don’t know. It’s not Grandma or family. “Dear Linh,” it begins. The handwriting is Grandpa’s, but shakier, as if written in nervousness. It’s dated 1970—two decades after the Korean War, during Vietnam perhaps. My heart quickens; Grandpa rarely spoke of that period. 

I gently unfold it and read: 

“Dear Linh, 

Hardly a day passes that I don’t think of you. The world around me here is on fire, but thoughts of you are my refuge. Last night I dreamed of the river by your village—the way the moonlight danced on the water as we sat together. I wish I could have stayed in that moment forever. You told me once that love is stronger than war. I want to believe that. When this is over, I will find a way to return to you, if fate allows. I have little to offer—a weary soul and a few coins to my name—but what I have, heart and soul, are yours. 

Yours always,
Red” 

By the time I finish, my hands are trembling. Grandpa… I knew he served a second tour, but I never imagined—Linh. A wartime sweetheart? The river by your village… I picture a younger Grandpa (Red, he signed, the nickname even then) under a foreign sky, in love and hopeful despite the chaos around him. 

He never spoke of anyone named Linh. He married Grandma Eileen long before Vietnam; perhaps this letter was never sent, or if it was, it never reached its destination. Or maybe it did, and who knows what came of it. 

I carefully refold the letter and place it back. My heart feels heavy with secrets. Did Grandma ever know? Did Aunt Iris? Probably not. It strikes me that each generation has its hidden chapters, just as I’m now entangled in one with this inheritance battle. 

I gather a couple of the letters, the journal, and the coins and take them downstairs. Settling into Grandpa’s worn armchair by the cold hearth, I wrap his robe tighter around me and flip open the leather journal, hoping it might offer some guidance or at least his perspective on family. 

Most of the journal entries are from the 1970s. I skim through pages of neat writing detailing daily farm life, occasional town gossip, notes about my mom as a kid (I smile at an entry where he recounts my mother at age six trying to ride the neighbor’s goat). Then I find an entry from two years ago, shortly after Grandpa’s health started failing: 

“October 3, 2023. Pain bad today. Mara drove me to Dr. Lewis. Grateful she’s here; I don’t know how I’d manage without her. Iris called—first time in months. Tried not to sound disappointed when she said she can’t visit for Thanksgiving. She has her life, I understand. I do miss my daughter. But I won’t guilt her; I know I wasn’t always the easiest father. I raised her to be independent, and I’m proud of her for that. 

Tyler and Lila—smart kids. Wish they’d come around more, not for chores or anything, just to sit a while. Maybe I should have reached out more when they were growing up, bridged the gap. Hard after Eileen passed; I think I withdrew too much. Regrets, I have a few. 

At least I have Mara. That girl is a light in this old house. When she reads to me, it reminds me of when I used to read to her as a child in this same chair. If the others drifted away, maybe that’s my doing, but she stayed. 

I decided to update my will. Howard agrees it’s for the best. I’ll make sure Mara is provided for. It’s the least I can do for all she’s done for me. Maybe the rest of the family won’t like it, but I hope they understand one day. If not, well… I trust Mara to do what’s right.” 

Hot tears blur my vision. I press the journal to my chest, overwhelmed. There it is: Grandpa’s thoughts laid bare. He blamed himself for the distance with Aunt Iris and the cousins, not me. He had regrets, but also conviction in his decision about the will. “I trust Mara to do what’s right,” he wrote. The weight of that trust is immense, but reading it steels me. I wipe my eyes, breathing in the lingering scent of his robe. 

“Grandpa, I promise I won’t let you down,” I whisper into the empty room. 

Outside, the wind picks up, rattling the windowpanes. But inside, under the halo of lamplight and surrounded by the echoes of Grandpa’s words, I feel a small measure of peace. I know what I have to do: stand firm, but also try to heal this rift as gently as possible. He didn’t leave me this legacy out of spite; he did it out of love and practicality. 

Clutching the lucky 5-yen coin in my palm, I finally feel sleep drawing near. I return the journal and letters carefully to the trunk upstairs—except the photograph I found tucked in the back cover of the journal, which I keep. It’s a black-and-white snapshot of Grandpa in uniform standing by a river, arm around a petite Vietnamese woman with kind, sad eyes. Linh, I presume. A little piece of a life I never knew he had. 

I head to bed as the first light of dawn grays the sky, the coin still warm in my hand. Tonight, I’ve uncovered not just Grandpa’s secrets, but also his heart. And in doing so, perhaps I’ve found the resolve I’ll need for what lies ahead.

Chapter 5: Breakfast of Tensions

The next morning, I awake to pale sunlight and the sound of sparrows in the oak tree outside. My head aches from the fitful few hours of sleep I managed after my midnight attic expedition. Still, I feel steadier in my heart after reading Grandpa’s journal. He trusted me to do what’s right, and I intend to, even if my cousins can’t see it. 

At 10:45 a.m., I’m setting out a pot of coffee and a plate of store-bought muffins on the cottage’s small kitchen table. The gesture feels strange—hosting a “brunch” for a family argument—but Aunt Iris insisted on bringing food. She arrived a few minutes ago with Lila, bearing a quiche and fruit salad like this were a normal family gathering. Tyler is running late; apparently he went out for a morning drive to “clear his head,” Aunt said with a strained smile. 

The atmosphere in the cottage is awkwardly polite at first. Aunt Iris moves quietly through the living room, pausing to run her fingers along the mantle where framed photos of our family sit. There’s one of Grandpa hugging a seven-year-old me on his lap, both of us grinning with gap-toothed smiles (I’d just lost a front tooth in that photo). Another shows Aunt Iris and my late mother as children, perched in a backyard apple tree while Grandpa pretends to scold them from below. Aunt picks up that picture and sighs. “I remember this day,” she says softly. “Your mother dared me to climb higher and I ripped my dress. Dad was so mad… but then by dinner he’d already forgiven us and was telling the story like a grand adventure.” 

I smile faintly, imagining Grandpa younger, stern and soft all at once. “He loved telling stories,” I say. 

Lila sits stiffly at the table, nodding but staying quiet. I notice her eyes roaming the cottage. Perhaps she’s recalling summers long ago when she and Tyler would visit for a week—back before teenage years and busy lives carried them elsewhere. There’s a flicker of nostalgia on her face. 

Aunt Iris sets the photo back and turns to me. “Mara, dear, thank you for inviting us in. I know this isn’t easy.” 

I pour coffee into mismatched mugs. “I figured it’s better than shouting in a parking lot,” I reply with a wry attempt at humor. Aunt Iris gives a tiny chuckle, relief that I’m being civil. 

Just then, the screen door creaks and Tyler steps in, bringing a gust of cool air with him. He’s dressed casually in jeans and a rumpled flannel, and there are dark circles under his eyes. “Sorry,” he mutters to no one in particular, by way of greeting. He slumps into a chair next to Lila. 

We pick at the quiche and fruit for a few minutes with forced small talk. It’s almost absurd—like we’re playing at being a normal family having Sunday brunch. Except the elephant in the room sits at the head of the table, where Grandpa’s chair now stands empty. 

I can’t take it anymore. I set down my fork and clear my throat. “So… we’re here to talk about Grandpa’s will.” 

All eyes turn to me. Aunt Iris dabs her mouth with a napkin. “Yes. I was hoping we could find an understanding among us, without involving outsiders.” 

Tyler snorts, stirring a spoon in his coffee. “Outsiders, meaning lawyers.” 

“Ty.” Lila nudges him, and he subsides, but I can tell he’s barely restraining himself. 

I fold my hands, summoning the calm resolve I found last night. “I know you’re all upset. Frankly, this has been tearing me up, too. I don’t want to fight with you. But I also have to honor what Grandpa decided.” 

Aunt Iris leans forward, her expression earnest. “Honey, I know you want to respect Dad’s wishes. But sometimes, people don’t realize the effects of their decisions on the ones left behind. He might not have understood how hurt Tyler and Lila would feel being excluded.” 

I bite my tongue for a moment, then speak gently. “He wasn’t trying to hurt anyone, Aunt Iris. He… he left a note in his journal about it.” I hadn’t planned to mention that, but it slips out. Their faces register surprise. 

“Journal?” Lila asks quietly. 

I nod. “He wrote that he hoped you’d all understand one day why he did it. That he felt I earned this by being there when he needed it, and that he trusted me to do right by his legacy.” 

Tyler’s jaw tightens. “Did right by his legacy? And what does that mean to you, Mara? Keeping it all to yourself?” 

I close my eyes for a beat. “It means preserving what mattered to him. This cottage, for one. He wanted it to stay in the family, not be sold off. He knew I feel the same way. If it went to all of us, realistically… would you keep it?” 

Tyler opens his mouth, but no answer comes. He glances at Lila, who looks down, then back at me. “We… I mean, maybe not. Neither of us lives here. But you could buy us out of our share—” 

Aunt Iris holds up a hand. “Stop, Tyler. Let her finish.” 

I swallow. “He also worried about you all. He mentioned in that same entry that he had regrets—he felt maybe he failed to keep the family together after Grandma died.” I see Aunt Iris flinch slightly. “He didn’t blame you for not visiting. He took the blame on himself. But the reality is, I was the one here. I was the one who gave up other opportunities to stay in Rustwood and help him. I don’t resent that—” my voice catches for a second, thinking of those tender moments we shared, “—I treasure every day I got with him. But he wanted to repay me in the only way he thought he could after all I gave up.” 

Lila’s eyes shine with fresh tears. “We never wanted you to give up anything, Mara,” she says softly. “We… we didn’t realize.” 

Tyler rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah well, we didn’t ask you to babysit him full-time.” 

“That’s not fair,” Aunt Iris chides. “Mara, I’m sorry. I should have been around more to help, I know that. After Mom passed, Rustwood just… reminded me of too much. I visited when I could, but it wasn’t as often as it should’ve been.” She pauses, eyes moist. “I suspect Dad did what he did partly to spare me as well. He knew I’m financially comfortable—I didn’t need his money, not like you might.” 

My cheeks warm. I’ve been so braced for greed from them that I didn’t consider Aunt Iris might genuinely not care about the money for herself. “Aunt Iris… I’m sorry if I assumed the worst.” 

She shakes her head. “You had reason to. My kids, on the other hand—” She casts a disappointed glance at Tyler, then softens it at Lila. “They’re just starting out. They could use help. That’s why I thought maybe you could find it in your heart to share a bit, Mara. Not for me, but for them. Family helping family.” 

Silence falls. I feel the weight of their eyes. Part of me wants to yield, to give them something to ease the strain. I clear my throat. “I’ve thought about this a lot… After all this, I can’t just undo Grandpa’s last wish. It doesn’t feel right. But—” I hesitate, choosing words, “—that doesn’t mean I don’t care about you both. Lila, Tyler… I hate what this has done to our relationships. I hope you know if you ever truly needed help—really needed it—I wouldn’t turn my back.” 

It’s not exactly an offer of cash on a silver platter, but it’s the best I can do and still sleep at night. Lila nods slowly, perhaps understanding the nuance. Tyler, less so. 

He leans forward, brow furrowed. “So basically, no. You’re keeping everything, but you might toss us a bone out of pity someday if we beg.” 

“That’s not what she said,” Lila whispers, touching his arm. 

“Well, it sure sounds like it.” He glares at me. “Grandpa’s not here to see this mess, Mara. Is this what you want? To tear the family apart for some money and an old house?” 

The accusation stings, but I hold my ground. “No, Tyler. I want the family together. But it seems that only matters to you now that there’s money involved. Where were you when he was alive and lonely?” 

Tyler pushes back his chair with a harsh scrape. “We’ve been over this. We had our lives—” 

“And I put mine on hold!” I snap, unable to keep the bitterness out. “I love Grandpa. I made that choice and I don’t regret it. But I won’t apologize for him wanting to thank me.” 

“Thank you by cutting us out? Great thanks.” He stands up, fists clenched at his sides. “This is going nowhere.” 

Aunt Iris wipes her eyes, rising as well. “Maybe we should all cool off. This isn’t how I hoped this would go… but I can see we’re at an impasse.” 

Lila stands too, looking miserable. “Mara, I understand you more now, I do. But it still… it hurts. It feels like he judged us, found us unworthy. Like we didn’t matter.” 

My anger softens at that. “He didn’t think that. In his journal he wrote you were smart, and he was proud. He just… he thought I needed this more.” 

“That’s true,” Aunt Iris murmurs. “Lila, Tyler—your grandfather knew you’d be okay. You have your parents, your own support. Mara… she had only him after her mom died.” Aunt’s voice cracks. “Maybe he also wanted to make sure she’d have security. That’s what fathers do for daughters, and she was like a daughter to him.” 

Lila nods slowly, tears slipping. Tyler says nothing, jaw like stone. 

Finally, Aunt Iris picks up her purse. “Thank you for having us, Mara. The quiche was lovely. I’m sorry we put you through this so soon after…” she gestures, meaning Grandpa’s death. 

I walk them to the door, feeling both drained and relieved that the tense meeting is over. Tyler steps out without a word, striding toward the car. Lila gives me a quick, impulsive hug. “I do love you, cousin,” she whispers. “I’m just…sad. I need time.” 

My throat tightens. “I love you too. I’m sorry things turned out this way.” 

She pulls back, wipes her cheeks, and heads to the car. Aunt Iris lingers a moment on the porch. She reaches out and gently cups my cheek as she did when I was little. “You look so much like your mother,” she says wistfully. “I won’t pretend I’m not disappointed, Mara. But I understand. And I hope we’ll all heal from this, eventually.” 

“Me too,” I whisper. 

She nods and then follows her children, leaving me alone in the doorway of Grandpa’s—no, my cottage. I watch as their car rolls down the gravel drive and out of sight, the echo of our strained conversation lingering in the quiet country air. 

I close the door and lean against it, heart heavy and pounding. A nagging worry twists in my gut: this isn’t over.

Chapter 6: Legal Storm Brewing

Not even an hour later, as I rinse the coffee cups in the sink, my phone buzzes with a notification. Wiping my hands, I pick it up to see a text from an unknown number: 

“This is Martin & Howe Law Firm, representing Tyler Dempsey and Lila Dempsey in the estate of Raymond Sullivan. Please contact us or have your legal counsel contact us at the earliest convenience to discuss an amicable resolution, or we will proceed with a formal challenge to the will.” 

A chill runs through me. I set the phone down, my hands suddenly trembling. So it’s come to this, I think. The fight has officially left the breakfast table and entered the legal arena. I draw a shaky breath, realizing I need help. And I know exactly who to call first.

Chapter 7: Seeking Counsel

An hour later I’m back in Mr. Belmont’s office, the same leather-bound chamber that now feels like a battlefield command center. I showed him the text from the cousins’ lawyer, and he nodded grimly, inviting me to sit. 

Mr. Belmont steeples his fingers on his desk. “I’m sorry, Mara. I had hoped they would accept Raymond’s wishes without this. But I suppose it’s not unexpected.” 

My stomach twists with anxiety. “They’re threatening to contest the will. Can they do that? On what grounds? Everything was done properly, right?” 

He gives a reassuring smile. “Yes, everything was executed properly. I oversaw the signing myself. Your grandfather was of sound mind. We even had a doctor’s note of competency at the time, given his age, just to be safe.” 

I let out a small breath of relief. “So they don’t have a case?” 

Mr. Belmont leans back. “To formally challenge a will, they’d need to prove something like lack of testamentary capacity or undue influence. ‘Undue influence’ is the common claim in scenarios like this—alleging that someone, perhaps you, coerced or manipulated him into changing his will.” 

My cheeks burn. “That’s ridiculous! I never—” 

He holds up a hand gently. “I know, I know. And given what I saw, there was no undue influence. Raymond was adamant and clear about his decisions. I documented everything. But understand, contesting a will can drag out the probate process, tie up the assets, and rack up legal fees. Even a frivolous challenge can cause a lot of stress and expense.” 

I slump in the chair, anger and despair warring in me. “So what do I do? I don’t want this to turn into some nasty court fight. But I also can’t just cave.” 

“Nor should you,” he agrees firmly. “Your grandfather’s intent was crystal clear. Our job is to uphold it. However, before this escalates to a courtroom, it’s common to attempt mediation.” 

I nod; the word was mentioned in the lawyer’s text too. “Mediation. That means we sit down with a neutral person and try to reach a compromise, right?” 

“Exactly. An impartial mediator—often a retired judge or professional negotiator—will meet with both parties to see if a settlement can be reached. It’s confidential and non-binding, but if an agreement is found, it can save everyone the trouble of a trial.” 

I chew my lower lip. “They’ll probably push again for me to share the money, I’m guessing. Or sell the house.” 

Mr. Belmont folds his arms, giving me a shrewd look. “What is your stance? Are you willing to give them anything at mediation?” 

I feel a flare of determination. “I don’t want to. It feels like rewarding them for swooping in now when they didn’t bother before. And it would go against what Grandpa chose.” 

He nods approvingly. “Fair enough. I’m obliged to support whatever position you take, as your counsel and executor. If your answer is no, then we’ll stand by that and rely on the will’s strength.” 

“Will it hold up, though? Can a judge force me to give them something if this goes to court?” 

“It’s unlikely, since the will is straightforward and lawfully executed. Judges tend to uphold the clear wishes of the testator unless there’s compelling evidence of wrongdoing. I doubt they have any such evidence. I suspect their lawyer knows this and is hoping to pressure you into a voluntary settlement.” 

I sigh, relief and nerves swirling. “So basically, I should hold my ground. They don’t have a legal leg to stand on.” 

“In my opinion, correct,” Mr. Belmont says. “But Mara, legal battles between family can get ugly. Mediation might at least clear the air, even if you don’t compromise. Sometimes just having everyone sit and talk with a mediator present can resolve lingering resentments.” 

I think of how drained Aunt Iris looked, how Lila hugged me with tears. Maybe Mr. Belmont is right. “Okay. So we agree to mediation.” 

He smiles. “I’ll communicate that to their attorney. We’ll find a mediator—someone neutral, likely from the county’s probate mediation program. It may take a week or two to schedule.” 

A week or two of this hanging over my head. But at least it’s movement. I stand up, feeling a mixture of dread and resolve. “Thank you, Mr. Belmont. For everything.” 

He walks me to the door. “Of course. Try not to worry too much. You have the law on your side, and your grandfather’s reasons were sound. Remember that.” 

“I will.” I pause, turning the doorknob. “You were Grandpa’s friend… do you think he’d be upset with me for not sharing?” 

His lined face softens. “He’d be upset that it’s causing you pain, certainly. But he trusted you, Mara. If you feel in your heart you’re doing right by him, then you are. In the end, that’s what matters.” 

Tears prick at my eyes. I manage a grateful nod and slip out. 

As I walk down the hall, I inhale deeply. This is going to be hard, but at least I’m not facing it alone—Mr. Belmont is in my corner. Mediation looms on the horizon, and I have time to gather myself for it. I also have time to do something I realize I desperately need: talk to someone who isn’t a lawyer or directly involved. I need a friend.

Chapter 8: A Friend’s Advice

That afternoon, I drive into the center of Rustwood to meet my best friend, Elena, at our favorite coffee shop. Elena and I grew up together, and she visited Grandpa often with me; she even helped out during some of his tougher weeks. If anyone understands a slice of what I’m feeling, it’s her. 

I slide into a corner booth where Elena is already waiting with two steaming mugs. The aroma of cinnamon and espresso wraps me in a small comfort. As soon as I see her warm brown eyes full of concern, my own eyes brim over. Before I can even say hello, she pulls me into a tight hug. 

“Oh, Mara. I’m so sorry,” Elena says softly. 

I wipe my tears and give a shaky laugh. “I haven’t even told you anything yet.” 

She nudges a mug toward me. “Honey, I didn’t need details. Half the town’s already buzzing about ‘family squabbles’ over Red’s will. Small-town grapevine—sorry.” 

I groan, blowing on my coffee. Rustwood’s rumor mill never fails. “Great. That’s just great.” 

“Forget them,” Elena says firmly. “Tell me what’s going on, from your perspective.” 

I do. I unload everything—the funeral, the shock of the will reading, Tyler’s accusations, Lila’s hurt, Aunt Iris’s guilt, the ugly arguments, and now the looming mediation. Elena listens, her hand resting on mine in solidarity. It feels so good to pour it out to someone who isn’t judging me. 

When I finish, she gives a low whistle. “That’s a lot. How are you holding up?” 

“Honestly? I feel like I’m on trial for doing the right thing.” I stir my coffee, watching the foam swirl. “I keep asking myself if I’m being selfish. Maybe I should just give them something to keep the peace. But then I think of Grandpa and… I just can’t.” 

Elena squeezes my hand. “Listen, you cared for your grandpa day in and day out. Anyone who wasn’t there doesn’t get to call you selfish. You have nothing to feel guilty about. Red chose you for a reason.” 

A tear slips down my cheek. “I just hate that it’s come to this. I don’t want to be estranged from my family forever. They’re basically the only blood I have left now.” 

“I know.” She hands me a napkin. “From what you said, it sounds like Lila and your aunt might come around eventually. Tyler… well, he might need more time. Or a kick in the pants.” She grins wryly. 

Despite everything, I chuckle. “He’s always been stubborn as a mule.” 

“Stubborn mule vs. brick-wall Mara. The showdown of the century,” Elena teases gently, then turns serious. “Whatever happens at that mediation, just speak your truth. Don’t let them twist things. You have every right to honor Red’s wishes. And honoring him doesn’t make you a bad cousin or niece.” 

I nod, absorbing her words. “Thank you. I needed to hear that.” 

Elena leans back. “Anytime. And if you need me on mediation day, I can wait outside with a celebratory or consolatory donut, whichever applies.” 

I smile, truly smile, for the first time in days. “What would I do without you?” 

“You’ll never have to find out,” she says, raising her coffee cup. “To Grandpa Red—for raising one hell of a granddaughter.” 

I clink my mug to hers. “To Grandpa.” 

As we drink, I feel some of the tension unravel. I have my friend in my corner, I have Mr. Belmont legally, and I have Grandpa’s memory guiding me. Whatever comes next, I won’t face it alone, nor will I doubt myself.

Chapter 9: Preparations and Resolve

The week leading up to the mediation passes in a blur of anxious anticipation. I spend the time sorting through Grandpa’s paperwork, tidying the cottage, and mentally rehearsing what I might say when the day comes. Each night I re-read a page or two of Grandpa’s journal for comfort, tracing his steady handwriting until I feel my heart calm. 

On the morning of the mediation, I wake before dawn. Unable to sit still, I drive to Rustwood Cemetery as the sun is just peeking over the pines. Dew beads on the grass, and the air carries that clean, new-day smell. I find Grandpa’s grave, the fresh headstone standing dignified and simple among older markers. 

“Hi Grandpa,” I whisper, crouching down. I’ve brought a small token: the lucky 5-yen coin he carried in the war. I don’t intend to leave it—I just wanted it with me. I rub its smooth round shape between my fingers. “Today’s a big day. I’m meeting the family to sort out… well, you know.” 

A breeze stirs, ruffling the leaves of an oak tree overhead. I almost imagine it’s him, clearing his throat gently as he used to when he had something wise to say. 

“I’m scared,” I admit, voice trembling in the quiet. “But I’m going to be strong, like you believed I could be. I promise I’ll stand up for what you wanted, and for myself.” I blink away a tear. “I just wish you were here to tell me it’ll all work out.” 

A bluebird lands on the corner of the gravestone, tilting its head at me. I manage a small smile. “I’ll take that as a sign of encouragement,” I murmur. 

Standing up, I press the coin to my lips then slip it back into my pocket. “Wish me luck, Grandpa.” 

The bluebird flits away into the brightening sky. I feel a strange peace as I walk back to my car. Whatever happens in that mediation room, I know who I am and what Grandpa entrusted me to do. And I carry his strength, like a coin tucked safe in my pocket, as I face the challenge ahead.

Part III

Chapter 10: The Mediation

A week later, I find myself in a neutral conference room at the county courthouse, seated at a long oak table polished to a shine. Sunlight pours through high windows, incongruously cheerful for the tense gathering taking place. My palms are damp against my skirt, and I discreetly wipe them, clutching Grandpa’s lucky coin in one hand beneath the table. 

To my right sits Mr. Belmont, calm and professional in his charcoal suit. Across the table are my cousins and Aunt Iris, along with their attorney, a sharp-eyed woman named Margaret Howe. Lila offers me a tentative half-smile when our eyes meet, but Tyler pointedly avoids looking at me, focusing instead on a random spot on the wall. Aunt Iris looks drawn and tired, her hands clasped tightly around a handkerchief on the table. 

At the head of the table is the mediator, Ms. Celeste Thompson, a silver-haired woman with an air of practiced patience. She starts the session with introductions and a gentle reminder: “We are here to find a resolution if possible. My role is to facilitate conversation, not to take sides. Let’s all remember we’re family, and approach this with respect.” 

Everyone murmurs assent. I force myself to breathe evenly. This feels different from the emotional outbursts at the cottage; it’s formal, almost scripted, yet the undercurrent of hurt and anger is palpable. 

Ms. Thompson folds her hands. “I’ve read the basic summary. Mara is the sole beneficiary of your father’s, or grandfather’s, estate. Tyler and Lila, with Ms. Dempsey’s support, have concerns about that arrangement. Why don’t we start with you, Ms. Howe? What would your clients like to achieve today?” 

The attorney clears her throat. “Thank you. Simply put, my clients are seeking a fair distribution of Raymond Sullivan’s estate. They feel that the current will, which leaves everything to Mara, does not reflect what Raymond would truly have wanted had he considered all family members. We are hoping Ms. Sullivan—” she nods toward me without warmth, “—will agree to a more equitable sharing of the assets to avoid a formal legal contest.” 

My face burns at the implication that Grandpa didn’t know what he was doing. But I stay quiet, as we agreed, and let Mr. Belmont respond for me. 

Mr. Belmont adjusts his glasses. “With all respect, Raymond’s will absolutely reflects his wishes. He was quite clear. We’re here in good faith, but my client, Mara, stands by the will as written. We don’t believe there is any ‘fairer’ distribution than the one Raymond himself decided on.” 

Ms. Howe purses her lips. “Mr. Sullivan was an elderly man under the care of Ms. Mara Sullivan in his final years. It’s understandable that emotions and perhaps influence could have played a role—” 

I can’t hold my tongue. “Are you saying I manipulated him? Because I didn’t.” My voice cracks the decorum, and Ms. Thompson lifts a hand. 

“Let’s allow Ms. Howe to finish, Mara. You’ll have your turn.” 

I bite the inside of my cheek and nod, heart pounding. 

The lawyer continues smoothly, “What I’m saying is that these situations can be complex. My clients were not present when the will was changed. They had no opportunity to discuss it with their grandfather. It came as a shock to them. All they seek is recognition of their place in Mr. Sullivan’s life and legacy—ideally in the form of a portion of the inheritance.” 

Tyler finally looks at me then, his eyes steely. “Damn right,” he mutters under his breath. 

Ms. Thompson hears him and makes a note on her pad but doesn’t scold. Instead, she turns to me. “Mara, would you like to respond to that? What would you like to see happen?” 

All heads swivel my way. The weight of their expectations nearly knocks the breath out of me, but I recall Grandpa’s trust and Elena’s encouragement. I sit up straighter. “Thank you. I—this is hard for me. I don’t want to be here fighting my family. I loved my grandpa more than anything. And I believe the will reflects how he chose to thank me for that.” 

My voice trembles, but I press on. “It’s not that I think Tyler or Lila don’t deserve something, or that they weren’t loved. It’s that Grandpa made a decision. He was of sound mind. He knew what he wanted. I don’t feel I have the right to change that just because it upsets people.” 

Lila sniffles softly, and Aunt Iris rubs her shoulder. Tyler opens his mouth to retort, but Ms. Thompson intervenes gently. “Tyler, you’ll get your chance. Let Mara finish.” 

He clamps his jaw, and I continue. “I took care of Grandpa in his final years. It wasn’t easy, but I did it out of love. He… he left me the house and his savings because he wanted me to have security and to keep our home, the cottage, in the family. I intend to honor that. I’m not going to sell the cottage, no matter what. And the money—” I shake my head, “—it’s not a life-changing fortune, but it’ll help me maybe fix up the house, settle some debts of my own. It will be used carefully, I promise that.” 

Ms. Howe interjects coolly, “No one is accusing you of planning to squander it, Mara. But to our point: your cousins have debts too, and dreams, and part of that money could help them without harming you.” 

Mr. Belmont counters, “Mediation isn’t a trial, but for the record, Mara’s finances or the cousins’ finances aren’t the issue. The issue is what Raymond intended. And he intended this specific outcome.” 

The mediator holds up a hand again to keep us from drifting into legal bickering. “Let’s hear from the family members directly. Tyler, you seem eager to speak. Go ahead.” 

Tyler sits up, jaw tight. “My grandpa was a generous man. He helped neighbors, he donated to the church, he believed in family. I just can’t accept that he’d be okay with one grandchild getting everything and the others getting zero. It doesn’t make sense to me. Not when we were all his blood.” 

I notice he doesn’t mention the part about not visiting; perhaps even he knows that weakens his stance, so he leaves it out. He continues, voice rising a bit, “I think Mara means well, but she was basically in his ear constantly at the end. Maybe he felt sorry for her or something, I don’t know. But it feels like we’re being punished for living our lives away from Rustwood.” 

Lila nods, speaking up softly, “We loved Grandpa. I… I admit I didn’t come around much these last couple years, and I regret that deeply.” She looks at me, eyes wet. “But he was still my grandpa too. It hurt that he left me nothing, not even a keepsake. It’s like we meant nothing to him, even though I know in my heart that’s not true.” 

Aunt Iris clears her throat, her voice strained. “Mara, sweetie, none of us doubt what you did for Dad. I’m grateful you were with him. Truly. But maybe he wasn’t thinking about how this would affect the rest of us. In the end, we’re a family. We should share both the responsibilities and the rewards. That’s… that’s how I feel.” 

Ms. Thompson nods, absorbing everyone’s statements. I feel tears on my lashes but blink them back. This is agony—hearing them speak like I’m betraying Grandpa’s loving nature by holding firm. 

The mediator leans forward. “It’s clear there is a lot of pain on all sides. Everyone here feels their stance is justified. Let’s try to find some common ground. Mara, would you be open to any form of sharing or gesture toward your cousins? And Tyler, Lila, what exactly do you envision as a fair outcome? Let’s put some ideas on the table.” 

I swallow hard. The showdown is reaching its crux, and I glance at Mr. Belmont. He gives me the tiniest nod, as if to say: your call. 

My heart thuds in my ears. This is the moment I must decide whether to bend or stand unyielding, and all eyes are on me.

Chapter 11: Hearts Laid Bare

My throat is so tight I can barely speak, but I force the words out. “I hear what you’re all saying. I do. You’re hurt. And I’m sorry you’re hurt.” I look directly at Lila, then Tyler, and finally Aunt Iris. My eyes are wet now; there’s no holding back. “This whole thing has been tearing me apart. I never wanted to be an only child in this, to have it all on me. I would have given anything for you to have been there with me during those last years— not to split money later, but to share the burden, to share time with him.” 

Aunt Iris closes her eyes, pained. Lila begins to quietly sob into a tissue. Tyler shifts, uncomfortable, but listening. 

I continue, voice cracking, “Do you know how many nights Grandpa asked after you both? How many times he wondered aloud what you were doing, or if you’d come visit for Christmas or even just call? I always tried to make excuses for you—‘They’re busy, Grandpa, they send their love, maybe next month…’—because I didn’t want him to feel abandoned.” A tear rolls down my cheek. “I don’t say this to guilt-trip you. I say it so you understand where I’m coming from. When I see you upset now because of money, it… it makes me so angry and sad. Because I would have loved for you to be upset then, upset enough to come see him when he was lonely.” 

Lila’s shoulders shudder. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I should have come. I was selfish and scared of seeing him frail. And then it was too late.” 

Aunt Iris is openly crying now. “I’m sorry too. I thought I had more time to visit— I thought there’d be more holidays… and then he was gone.” 

Even Tyler’s face has fallen, his bravado gone as he stares at his hands. He doesn’t speak, but I see his jaw working, holding in emotion. 

Ms. Thompson gently pushes a box of tissues toward the center of the table. No one speaks for a long moment as we compose ourselves. 

I sniff and continue softly, “Grandpa did what he did in his will because he knew I was there and you weren’t. Maybe it was his way of thanking me, or maybe it was a little bit of hurt on his part, I honestly don’t know. But I need you to know: I never asked him for anything. I never expected anything. I was ready for him to split it equally; I assumed he would.” 

“We all did,” Aunt Iris murmurs. 

I take a shaky breath. “But he didn’t. And I think I understand now that it was because he wanted me to keep the cottage safe, and to have something for my future. He worried about me being on my own. He told Mr. Belmont—” I nod to my attorney, “—that he trusted me to do right by his legacy. I’m trying to do that. To me, that means keeping his house the way he wanted and remembering him by living the values he taught me.” 

Ms. Howe, the opposing lawyer, interjects carefully, “Those are admirable sentiments, Mara. But the practical matter remains: is there a compromise to be had regarding the distribution of assets?” 

I wipe my face, feeling oddly calmer now that I’ve said my truth. A compromise… Grandpa’s voice echoes in my mind: Every trinket has a tale. Perhaps there is something I can share that isn’t money, but still meaningful. 

I clear my throat, looking at my cousins. “I’m not going to give you a chunk of the money, and I won’t sell the house. I’m sorry, but I can’t.” Tyler’s face hardens again, but I quickly continue. “However… I realize Grandpa did kind of fail to leave you two much to remember him by. No keepsakes. And that was an oversight, I think.” 

Lila peers at me, confused and curious. Aunt Iris blinks, tears subsiding. Tyler narrows his eyes. 

I reach into my bag at my feet and pull out a small parcel I’d brought, wrapped in brown paper. With trembling hands, I set it on the table and unfold it, revealing two items: Grandpa’s worn leather wallet and the old pocketknife he carried everywhere until it got too heavy for his weak hands. I slide the knife toward Tyler. “This was Grandpa’s favorite knife. He taught me how to whittle with it. He taught you too, remember, Ty? When we were kids, that summer by the river?” 

Tyler’s eyes widen at the sight of the familiar bone-handled knife. He nods wordlessly, Adam’s apple bobbing. Gently, he picks it up, turning it in his hands. 

I slide the wallet toward Lila. “His wallet—still has his driver’s license in it, and that photo of all of us at Aunt Iris’s 50th birthday. He always kept that photo right here.” I tap the worn leather. “He would want you to have it, Lila.” 

Lila reaches out, tracing the edges of the wallet with reverence. She opens it, and a choked laugh escapes her. “That goofy picture… oh, Grandpa.” I know she’s seeing the image of all of us smiling, cake smeared on Grandpa’s cheek from where Lila herself had hugged him with frosting on her fingers. 

“I have things of his I cherish already,” I say softly. “His journal, some letters, the house full of memories. I don’t need these to remember him. But maybe you do.” 

Lila clutches the wallet to her heart. “Thank you,” she whispers, tears falling anew. “This means so much to me.” 

Tyler is quiet, turning the pocketknife over and over. I can’t read his expression fully; something like regret and relief mixed together. 

Aunt Iris dabs her eyes. “That’s a generous gesture, Mara.” 

I shrug, wiping my own nose. “It’s not money. But it’s what I have to give. And…” I muster a sad smile at my cousins, “…and I’m willing, if you want, to have you come visit the cottage anytime. It’s still as much the old family home as ever. We can even have holidays there together, like Grandpa would’ve liked. If… if you want.” 

Lila nods vigorously. Tyler’s eyes finally meet mine, and I see them glistening. He clears his throat. “I’d like that. Maybe not right away… but someday, yeah.” 

Ms. Thompson, the mediator, smiles gently, breaking the thick silence that follows. “It sounds like, while an exact monetary split isn’t happening, the parties have reached a different kind of understanding.” 

Ms. Howe looks a little taken aback by the turn of events—this is clearly not the typical legal settlement. She confers in a low whisper with Aunt Iris and my cousins. Tyler whispers, “Drop it, Mom. It’s okay.” Lila nods. 

Aunt Iris addresses the mediator, voice wavering but resolute. “We won’t be contesting the will. We… we accept Dad’s wishes.” She turns to me. “Mara, I’m sorry we put you through all this. And thank you for… for reminding us what really matters.” 

A weight I didn’t fully realize I was carrying slides off my shoulders. I let out a breath, half-sob, half-laugh. “Thank you,” I whisper. 

Mr. Belmont pats my hand under the table. Ms. Thompson claps her hands lightly. “Well, it appears we have a family agreement. In mediation terms, I’ll note that no financial exchange will occur, but certain personal property items have been given as keepsakes, and all parties intend to maintain familial relationships moving forward. I’d call that a success of a sort.” 

No one disagrees. The legal documents are minimal—Ms. Howe will draft a simple statement that Tyler and Lila withdraw their objections to the will, and we all sign it before leaving. 

As we rise from the table, there’s a hesitant moment where we all stand, unsure of what to do next. Then Lila walks around and pulls me into a hug. I hug her back tightly, closing my eyes as a few final tears slip out. 

Tyler steps forward, his hands in his pockets. For a second I think he might actually hug me too, but he simply holds out his hand. I take it, and he squeezes firmly. “No hard feelings?” he asks quietly. 

I search his face—my once boisterous, annoying, beloved older cousin with whom I hunted frogs in the creek. I see in his eyes that same boy, chastened and sad. “No hard feelings,” I agree. 

Aunt Iris embraces me last. “You’re something else, kiddo,” she whispers, echoing Grandpa’s old pet name for me. “Dad was right to be proud of you.” 

I hug her back, the scent of her familiar perfume making me feel six years old again for a moment. “We’ll be okay, Aunt Iris,” I whisper. “All of us.” 

We depart the courthouse together, side by side, into the afternoon sun. The mediator and lawyers stay behind to finalize paperwork, but the family—our family—walks out as one group. It’s not exactly the picture of perfect harmony—Tyler walks a bit apart, head down, and there’s a lingering sorrow for what we all lost in not coming together sooner. But there’s hope, too. I can feel it in the way Lila loops her arm in mine as we descend the courthouse steps, and in how Aunt Iris pats Tyler’s back, and even in Tyler’s faint smile when Lila cracks a small joke about how Grandpa would’ve hated all this fuss. 

As I watch them drive away, after we’ve said our goodbyes with promises to gather at the cottage soon, I feel Grandpa’s coin warm in my hand. “We did it, Grandpa,” I whisper toward the sky. “Maybe not exactly how you planned, but… we’re gonna be okay.” 

And for the first time since his death, I truly believe it.

Chapter 12: New Beginnings

A week after the mediation, the cottage is filled with a different kind of energy. In the golden light of late afternoon, I find myself humming as I dust Grandpa’s bookshelf, the one lined with Western novels and gardening guides. The heavy weight in my chest has lifted. 

True to our word, our family has started to heal. Aunt Iris called yesterday just to check on me—and to share a funny memory of Grandpa sneaking candy to us grandkids behind our parents’ backs. Lila sent me a photo she found of herself as a toddler on Grandpa’s shoulders; she’s begun compiling a digital album of all our collective memories. Even Tyler texted—just a short note about how he’s taking up whittling again, inspired by having Grandpa’s pocketknife. It made me smile for hours. 

Today I’m preparing for a small gathering at the cottage. Aunt Iris and my cousins are due to arrive soon, not for conflict this time but for an informal memorial of sorts. We decided to honor Grandpa together by visiting one of his favorite spots—the Rustwood Riverbank—to share stories and say a proper goodbye now that the dust has settled. It was Aunt Iris’s idea, and I readily agreed. 

As I finish tidying, I catch a glimpse of myself in the hallway mirror. There’s a lightness in my expression I haven’t seen in a long while. I’m wearing one of Grandpa’s old flannel shirts over my dress like a jacket—a habit I picked up to feel him close. 

On the mantel, Grandpa’s portrait smiles at me. I smile back and gently touch the frame. “We’re all gonna be together tonight, Grandpa,” I whisper. “I think you’d like that.” 

Outside, I hear the crunch of tires on gravel—my family arriving, laughter already drifting through the open window. I take a deep breath, feeling gratitude swell inside. This is a new beginning for all of us, forged from loss but carrying forward love. 

With Grandpa’s spirit in my heart, I head out to greet them, ready to spend an evening not as adversaries, but as family, united by the legacy of the man we all loved.

Chapter 13: A Fond Memory

On the drive out to the Rustwood River, I find my mind drifting to a sunny afternoon many years ago—one of those perfect childhood days that stays tucked in your heart. I was about eight years old, with grass-stained knees and pigtails undone from play. Grandpa Red had taken Tyler, Lila, and me for a picnic by the very river we’re headed to now. 

In my memory, the river sparkled under the summer sun, and Grandpa’s hearty laugh echoed as Tyler splashed in the shallows trying to catch minnows with his bare hands. Lila was napping on a blanket, her head on Grandpa’s lap, while I crouched at the water’s edge with a mission: to skip a stone all the way to the opposite bank. 

“Like this, Mara,” Grandpa said. He was beside me, tossing a flat stone. It danced across the surface—one, two, three, four, five ripples—before plunking under. I clapped, determined to match him. My first attempt sank like a lead ball. I pouted, and he chuckled, placing a sun-spotted hand on my shoulder. “Don’t worry, kiddo. Try again. It’s all in the wrist, and you gotta pick the right stone.” 

He handed me a smoother pebble and showed me the flick of his old wrist in slow motion. I tried again. One, two, three skips—my personal best at that age. I whooped with pride. Grandpa gave me one of his famous high-fives, nearly lifting me off the ground with the enthusiasm of it. “That’s my girl!” he cheered. 

We spent the rest of that afternoon wading and skipping rocks. When we got tired, Grandpa opened his battered thermos and poured us lukewarm lemonade, which we drank out of the lid-cups. We munched peanut butter sandwiches and listened as Grandpa spun one of his tall tales—something about a river pirate in Rustwood long ago, entirely invented but mesmerizing to our young ears. 

As the sun set golden over the water, I remember dozing against Grandpa’s side, feeling completely safe and loved. Just before I fell fully asleep, I felt him kiss the top of my head and murmur, “Family is everything, little Mara.” 

That memory washes over me now like the river’s gentle current. Family is everything. Grandpa might not have said it explicitly in his will, but he lived it in moments like that day. And despite all the heartache and conflict that came later, here we are—still a family, finding our way back to that truth. 

Snapped from my reverie by the turn of the car, I realize we’ve arrived at the riverbank. I carry that cherished memory with me, stepping out into the twilight with a smile, ready to make new memories on this familiar shore.

Chapter 14: Riverbank Goodbye

Dusk settles in as we gather by the Rustwood River, at the very spot where so many of our family memories live. The water flows lazily, tinted orange and pink by the sunset. We spread out an old quilt—Grandma Eileen’s patchwork one—and stand or sit close together. 

Aunt Iris clears her throat gently. In her hands she holds a small wreath woven from wildflowers; she’s always had a talent for making them. “Dad used to bring me fishing here,” she says softly. “I thought it’d be nice to leave something in the water for him.” She steps to the river’s edge and, with a trembling smile, sets the flower wreath afloat. We watch in silence as it drifts, the current carrying it downstream. 

Tyler crouches and tosses a pebble in, watching the ripples. “Remember how Grandpa would skip rocks here? He tried to teach me, but I mostly just plunked them straight in,” he says, half-chuckling. “He’d tease me I had the touch of a bricklayer, not a ballerina.” 

We all laugh softly at that, picturing Grandpa’s playful grin. Lila sniffs and wipes a tear. “He taught me how to make a leaf boat and float it on this river,” she offers. “I was maybe six. I thought it was magic, the way he could get a leaf to sail like a real boat.” 

“I remember that,” I say. “He showed us all. Mine sank because I overloaded it with acorns as passengers.” 

Lila smiles at me, and it’s warm and real. In this gentle twilight, all the bitterness has receded, replaced by shared affection for the man we miss. 

We take turns sharing little stories—Aunt Iris recalls how Grandpa used to come here to think whenever he had a hard decision; Tyler mimics Grandpa’s exaggerated storytelling voice, making us laugh; I describe how just last fall I wheeled Grandpa out here in his chair and we sat quietly feeding breadcrumbs to the ducks, a memory I’ll always treasure. 

As the first stars prick the sky, we stand in a loose circle at the water’s edge. I take the 5-yen coin from my pocket—the lucky charm Grandpa carried in war and passed to me. I had thought about throwing it into the river as a final farewell, but now I realize Grandpa would want me to keep my luck. Instead, I close my fist around it and whisper, “Thank you, Grandpa. For everything.” 

I open my hand and let the coin catch the last glint of daylight before slipping it safely back into my pocket. 

Aunt Iris wraps an arm around my shoulders. Lila links her arm through Tyler’s. Together, in unspoken agreement, we say our final goodbyes. There are no grand speeches or formal prayers—just a quiet moment where each of us, in our own way, sends love along the river to Grandpa. 

The water carries away our flower wreath, our tears that fell in, and perhaps a bit of our grief too. In its place, it leaves peace. 

We linger until the sky deepens to indigo and the crickets begin their chorus. One by one, we each whisper a last “Goodbye, Red,” or “I love you, Grandpa,” into the gentle night. 

And then it’s done. We’ve honored him—together, as he would have wanted. 

As we turn to head back up the path, I take one last look at the flowing river, shimmering under the first moonlight. I’ll keep your legacy safe, I promise silently. And I’ll keep this family together.

Chapter 15: Epilogue – The Letter

Two weeks later, on a crisp morning, I sit at Grandpa’s old writing desk by the cottage window, sorting through a stack of condolence cards that arrived throughout the month. Life is finding a new rhythm; I’ve started a part-time job in town and spend weekends repainting the cottage’s shutters a cheery blue (Grandpa would approve). Tyler and Lila are back to their lives, but we message often now—little check-ins that make my heart glad. Aunt Iris and I have plans to go through Grandma’s photo albums together soon. 

As I pen a thank-you note to one of Grandpa’s veteran buddies, I notice an unfamiliar postmark on an envelope near the bottom of the pile. The paper is thin and air-mail light, with exotic stamps and my grandfather’s name scrawled in a delicate, looping script. My breath catches. The return address reads: Hanoi, Vietnam. 

Curious, I carefully slit it open. Several pages of yellowed stationery lie within, covered in neat handwriting. A faint scent of old paper and something floral wafts up, as if the letter carried a bit of its home with it. 

Heart thudding, I begin to read the opening line: 

“My dearest Red, 

I write with trembling hand upon learning of your passing…” 

I gasp softly. Red. Only one person ever called him that, outside of Rustwood. My eyes dart to the signature at the bottom of the last page, and I feel the room tilt slightly. 

It’s signed, “Love always, Linh.” 

Linh—the wartime sweetheart from the letter I found in the attic. 

I press a hand to my mouth, stunned. The next line makes my eyes blur: 

“I never got to tell you about our son…” 

Our son. 

The letter slips from my fingers and flutters to the desktop. My heart pounds so loudly I can hear the rush of blood in my ears. Grandpa had a child across the ocean—another heir, perhaps, that none of us knew about. 

A thousand questions explode in my mind. A brother or sister to Aunt Iris? An entire branch of family in Vietnam? Does this son know about us? Does he know about Grandpa? 

With trembling hands, I gather the pages again and read on, devouring every word of Linh’s elegant English script. She speaks of a brief love amid war’s chaos, a child born after Grandpa had already been shipped home, letters that never reached him. She kept the child— a boy— and named him Danh. She writes that she saw Grandpa’s obituary online (he had been mentioned in a veterans’ bulletin) and felt compelled to reach out to his family. Danh, their son, is now in his fifties and has children of his own—Grandpa’s grandchildren, my cousins, across the world. 

Tears of shock and unexpected joy prick my eyes. A whole hidden part of Grandpa’s life—of our family—revealed in these delicate pages. 

On the final page, Linh has included an address and a gentle hope: that someone might write back, that perhaps it’s not too late for our families to know one another. 

My hands shake as I set the letter down. The morning sun spills over it, highlighting the foreign characters of the Vietnamese address, the graceful curves of Linh’s signature. I feel at once overwhelmed and exhilarated. Grandpa’s legacy just grew, in the most astonishing way. 

I rise and step onto the porch, lifting my gaze to the wide blue sky. “Well, Grandpa,” I murmur, holding the letter to my heart, “looks like our story isn’t over yet.” 

In the distance, the Rustwood River flows steadily, carrying the past into the future. I take a deep breath, filled with resolve and wonder. There’s another branch of our family out there, across the ocean, and a new chapter waiting to be written. 

As I head inside to call Aunt Iris with this incredible news, I smile through my tears. Grandpa always did love a good story—and I have a feeling he just gave us one more. 

(To be continued…?)