I thought inheriting my grandma’s house would bring me peace. Instead, it opened a door to a war I never expected. And the one who lit the fire? My own cousin.
My name is Elena. I’m 27 years old and I work as a freelance illustrator. My life isn’t flashy—I spend most days in little cafés sketching characters in my notebook, or sitting on the back porch with a steaming cup of coffee while my dog curls up at my feet. It’s a quiet life, not glamorous at all, but it’s mine. And for the longest time, I was content with it.
I don’t usually talk about my family. Mostly because there isn’t much left to talk about.
When I was just six, my mom died in a car accident. That day ripped my whole world apart. Other kids my age were going on vacations with their parents or having their dads teach them how to ride a bike. Me? I was stuffing clothes into a bag and moving into a small white cottage with my grandmother, Lily. I always called her Gran.
Gran was everything to me. She wasn’t just my guardian—she was my safe place, my warmth, my anchor. She had this gentle voice that could calm a storm, and she baked cinnamon rolls so good they felt like hugs in food form. She was sharp, funny, stubborn, and always humming old songs neither of us knew the names of.
It was just me and her, against the world.
My dad? He vanished after Mom died. I couldn’t even tell you where he is now. Gran never insulted him, though. She’d just sigh and call him “a runner.”
Gran had another daughter, my aunt Greta, who lived in the next town. She had a daughter too—my cousin Lydia, who was only a year older than me. You’d think we’d be close, but we weren’t.
Lydia was the type who walked around like the world owed her something. Nails always perfect, makeup flawless, her nose tilted up like she was above everyone else.
She and her mom, Greta, only showed up at our house on Christmas or Easter, and even then, they never stayed long. They never called, never offered to help when Gran was sick. All the hospital rides, the late-night medicine runs, the doctor visits—that was me. Only me.
So when Gran passed away last spring, I wasn’t shocked when her will left the cottage to me. The lawyer handed me the paper, and my heart ached—not because of surprise, but because of the finality.
The house wasn’t just wood and walls. It smelled like baked apples and lavender oil. It held the crochet blanket she used to wrap around me during thunderstorms, and photos of my mom in her prom dress sat proudly on the mantel.
That house was her heart. And now it was mine too.
It was a gray Tuesday when my phone buzzed. Lydia’s name lit up the screen.
I froze. We hadn’t spoken in months—not since the funeral, where she barely muttered a word to me.
Cautiously, I answered. “Hello?”
“Hey,” Lydia said quickly, skipping all small talk. “I need a favor. I think Grandma kept some of my documents at her house. They’re really important, and I need to get them.”
I frowned. “What kind of documents?”
“Just… papers. Birth stuff, school stuff. I don’t know,” she rushed. “Can I come by and get them?”
I hesitated. Something felt off. “Can it wait a couple days? I’m leaving for a work trip tomorrow. I’ll be back Thursday.”
“No, it can’t wait,” she snapped. “Please, just leave me the keys. I’ll be quick, I swear.”
Her tone made my gut tighten. Lydia never asked for favors unless she had an angle. Still… she was family.
“Fine,” I sighed. “I’ll leave them under the doormat.”
“Thanks,” she muttered, then hung up. No goodbye.
I was gone one night.
When I returned, the cottage looked perfectly normal from the outside. The flowerpots still sat crooked, the porch swing creaked in the wind. For a second, I thought maybe I was paranoid.
Then I opened the door.
The silence inside was heavy, suffocating.
The smell hit me first—sour milk, grease, and rot. My stomach churned. I stepped inside, heart thumping.
The living room looked like a bomb had gone off. Fast-food wrappers were everywhere, greasy containers oozing old sauce. Soda cans rolled across the floor, chips were ground into the carpet.
My chest tightened as I stumbled toward Gran’s bedroom. I hadn’t touched it since she died.
When I opened the door, I almost collapsed.
Red and black paint was smeared across the wallpaper like blood. The bed was shredded, feathers floating in the air like snow. Greasy handprints streaked the closet doors. Candy wrappers and trash filled the drawers.
It wasn’t just messy. It was violent. Deliberate.
Hands shaking, I called Lydia. She answered immediately.
“What did you do?!” I shouted, voice cracking. “Why would you trash the house? And Gran’s room? How could you?”
There was a long silence. Then Lydia’s voice, cold as ice.
“Oh, don’t act innocent. You know why. Grandma left the house to you. It should’ve been mine. You don’t deserve it.”
My grip on the phone tightened. “You barely even visited her! You weren’t there for her! You don’t get to say that.”
She laughed—a sharp, bitter sound. “Doesn’t matter. You got what I wanted. So I made sure you wouldn’t enjoy it.”
Then she hung up.
I stood there, listening to the dead line, surrounded by destruction. My knees shook, but instead of falling, I rolled up my sleeves.
If she thought she’d break me, she was wrong.
The next morning, I went straight to the hardware store. My cart overflowed with bleach, gloves, sponges, trash bags, and buckets. The cashier raised an eyebrow.
“Big mess to clean?” she asked.
I forced a smile. “Something like that.”
Back home, I tied my hair back, pulled on old jeans, and started scrubbing. The stench was unbearable. No matter how much I cleaned, it clung to my skin. I hauled bag after bag of trash to the curb, my arms aching, my throat burning from bleach fumes.
But the worst was Gran’s room. The paint wouldn’t come off, no matter how hard I tried. It felt like her walls were bleeding.
I finally gave up and hired painters. When they saw the room, one asked, “This a prank war gone too far?”
“No,” I said flatly. “Just someone with no respect for the dead.”
It cost me five hundred dollars I didn’t have, but when the walls were painted clean and pale again, I almost cried.
Still, the house no longer smelled like Gran. And that broke me most.
Weeks later, I sat in my lawyer’s office. Her name was Michelle, sharp-eyed and calm. I laid out the photos of the wreckage, the receipts for cleaning supplies, new furniture, and repairs.
Michelle studied everything carefully, then looked up. “This is solid. She won’t walk away from this.”
“Even if she denies it?” I asked.
“We have evidence, motive, and her own words. She’s responsible.”
And she was right. The court ruled in my favor. Lydia had to reimburse me for every penny I spent.
I wanted her to feel it. So I placed the ruling and receipts into a box, tied it with a pink ribbon, and left it on her porch with a card that read: From the home you destroyed.
Minutes later, my phone rang.
“WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?!” Lydia screamed.
“That’s a court order,” I said calmly. “You’re going to pay for every wall you smeared, every pillow you ripped, every bag of trash I dragged out.”
“You’re insane! You actually went to court over this?!”
“Yes,” I said.
“You think you’ve won?” she spat.
I took a slow breath. “No. Grandma won. Because you didn’t take her house from me. And now you’ll pay for trying.”
Then I hung up.
The payments came in slowly, Lydia sending snide notes like “Enjoy, Princess” with her checks. I didn’t care. I cashed them anyway. Each one was proof she’d lost.
And finally, the house felt peaceful again.
At night, I’d sit in the living room with tea, letting the quiet wrap around me. Sometimes I’d whisper into Gran’s old room, “Got her back, Gran. She didn’t win.”
I even placed the court ruling in her desk drawer, next to her Bible and a photo of her holding my mom’s hands on her wedding day.
It felt like I was putting everything broken back where it belonged.
And in that moment, I heard Gran’s voice in my head: “You’re stronger than you think, Elena.”
For the first time, I believed it.