I never really understood why my grandfather, Matthew, held onto grudges for so long, especially his never-ending feud with our neighbor, John Gilliam.
For as long as I could remember, they were always arguing over the smallest things. But their biggest battle? Their gardens. Both men took great pride in their flowers and lawns, treating them like prized possessions. The whole neighborhood knew about their rivalry—it was legendary. Some people even joked that they should’ve been on a reality TV show.
My mother and I loved flowers, and my grandfather made sure our garden was always full of them.
One afternoon, as we sat in the kitchen enjoying fresh-baked cookies, he looked at me with a warm smile. “Amy, as long as I can still garden, you and your mom will always have fresh flowers.”
That was my grandfather—caring, stubborn, and full of love.
But while he poured love into his family and garden, his feud with John never wavered. It was a constant part of my childhood—spying on their dramatic showdowns, hearing my grandfather grumble about John under his breath, and watching them try to outdo each other’s flower beds like rival kings.
Then, my grandfather’s health started to decline. Slowly at first, but noticeably. He went for regular blood tests and check-ups. After my grandmother had passed from a sudden heart attack years before, he became strict about his health, taking vitamins and watching his diet.
“I don’t have an illness or anything,” he assured us one evening at dinner. “It’s just old age finally catching up to me.”
But eventually, old age won.
My grandfather passed away peacefully. It was a heartbreaking time, but we took comfort in knowing he had lived a full, meaningful life. His funeral was beautiful, filled with stories of his kindness and resilience.
A few months later, we found ourselves in our family lawyer’s office, ready to hear his will. My mother sat beside me, eyes glassy with unshed tears. My father tried to keep a neutral expression, but I could tell he was tense.
The lawyer began reading. My mother inherited his antique furniture, my father received his beloved collection of ties and bow ties, and I was given a portion of his money.
“What about the rest?” my mother asked suddenly. “The rest of Dad’s money was meant for Amy’s education.”
“Relax, Jessica,” my father said gently. “Amy has been given more than enough.”
The lawyer cleared his throat and continued reading.
“To his neighbor, John Gilliam, Matthew left $350,000 and his vintage car.”
The room went completely silent for a second before my mother burst out, “What?! That’s impossible! Are you sure that’s correct? My father hated John!”
“Yes, it’s legitimate,” the lawyer confirmed. “And he also left a letter.”
“A letter?” I asked. “Can we read it?”
“It’s addressed to John, but your grandfather instructed me to read it to you all first.”
He carefully unfolded a yellowed piece of paper and began reading aloud. The air in the room grew thick with emotion.
My Dear John,
Please, tell my family that I could not turn my back on you in your time of grief, despite our foolish feud that lasted for most of our lives. You have earned my respect as a worthy adversary and, even more so, as a father.
I have come to know about Olive’s condition. I know she is sick and needs a kidney transplant.
Dr. Mackay let it slip when I went for my blood tests. Please don’t be mad at him—it is because of him that I learned how serious Olive’s situation is.
Please, use this money for her treatment. Use it to help save your child. I have already promised my granddaughter that I will support her education, so I am also leaving my car to you. It’s worth a lot. If you need more money for Olive, sell it. With this, I hope to ease your burden.
Warmly,
Matthew
My jaw nearly hit the floor.
I always knew my grandfather was a kind man, but this? This was beyond what I could have imagined. He had spent his final months not plotting against John, but helping him.
The next day, my parents and I went to John’s house. My mother still struggled to accept it, but deep down, she understood why my grandfather had done what he did.
John answered the door, his face filled with confusion.
“Hello,” he greeted us cautiously.
John’s wife welcomed us inside and made us tea. My father explained everything we had learned.
“It should all be official soon,” my father said as he reached for a scone.
John shook his head in disbelief. “I can’t believe he did that.”
My mother hesitated before asking, “Has Olive been sick for long?”
John nodded, his voice thick with emotion. “She’s been sick for years. We’ve tried everything, but it’s been draining—physically, emotionally, financially. We don’t have medical insurance. Everything has been out of pocket. Your father… what he’s done…”
He trailed off. No one spoke for a moment.
“Where is Olive now?” I asked.
“She’s asleep,” John said, as if reading my thoughts.
“So what happens next?” my mother asked. “She gets on the transplant list?”
John nodded. “She’s already on it. We just needed the money to move forward.”
Months passed. Then one evening, there was a knock at our door. It was John.
“It’s time!” he said breathlessly, dropping into a chair at our dining table. “Olive’s getting her transplant tomorrow.”
Since my grandfather’s passing, John had become a part of our lives. He looked after our garden and even took our dog for walks. It was strange how a lifelong feud had turned into a friendship.
My mother loaded up his plate with food as he told us about Olive’s upcoming surgery.
“I’m overwhelmed,” he admitted. “I need this to work. It has to.”
“And it will,” my father reassured him. “You have to believe that.”
The next day, I sat with John in the hospital waiting room. He was restless, pacing, rubbing his hands together.
“Still a few more hours,” he murmured, checking his watch.
I patted the chair beside me. “Come sit with me.”
Eventually, he did. And we waited together.
Hours later, when I finally saw Olive in her hospital room, her eyes welled up with tears.
“Amy,” she whispered. “I don’t know how to thank you and your family enough.”
Over time, our families grew closer. In an unexpected way, my grandfather had brought us together, even in his death.
On my next birthday, John handed me a set of car keys.
“This belongs to you, darling,” he said. “It always did.”
It was my grandfather’s vintage car. He had left it for John, but now, John was returning it to me.
Now, as I prepare to leave for university, I know I’ll be driving off in my grandfather’s car with him watching over me.
And every time I visit his grave, I whisper a thank you.
He taught me one of the greatest lessons of all: People can change. Grudges don’t have to last forever. Nothing is set in stone.
