I thought inheriting my grandma’s house would bring me peace. Instead, it started a war I never saw coming. And the person who lit the match? My own cousin.
My name’s Elena. I’m 27, and I work as a freelance illustrator. Most of my days are spent sketching in cafés or on my back porch, coffee mug in hand, my dog curled up by my feet. It’s not glamorous, but it’s mine, and I’ve made peace with it.
I don’t usually talk much about my family. Mostly because there’s not much left of it.
My mom died in a car accident when I was six. After that, everything changed. While other kids were learning to ride bikes with their dads or going on family vacations, I was packing up my little bag and moving into a cottage with my grandmother, Lily. I called her Gran.
Gran was everything. She had this soft voice that could calm a storm, and she made cinnamon rolls so good they could fix a broken heart. Stubborn, funny, sharp, and warm — that was her. She hummed old songs around the house, tunes we never knew the names of, filling the silence so I never felt alone.
It was her and me. Always her and me.
My dad? He disappeared. I don’t even know where he is now. Gran never bad-mouthed him. She’d just sigh and call him “a runner.”
Gran’s other daughter, my aunt Greta, lived one town over. She had a daughter too — my cousin Lydia. Lydia was only a year older than me, but you wouldn’t know it. She always strutted around like a queen, her nails always perfect, nose tilted up like the world owed her everything.
We weren’t close. Not even a little. Lydia and Aunt Greta would show up for Christmas or maybe Easter, but they never stayed long. They didn’t call. They didn’t help Gran when she needed rides to the doctor or when her arthritis got bad. It was always me. Only me.
When Gran passed away last spring, I didn’t cry at the funeral. I had already cried all the tears I had in those last painful weeks in hospice. When the lawyer handed me the will and I saw Gran left me the house, I wasn’t shocked. Just heartbroken in that heavy, lingering way.
The house was small, just a two-bedroom cottage with chipped white paint and a creaky porch swing. But it held everything — the smell of baked apples and lavender oil, the crochet blanket we shared during thunderstorms, the faded photos of my mom on the mantel.
That house was Gran’s heart. And it became mine too.
It was a gray Tuesday when my phone buzzed. Heavy clouds pressed low in the sky. The name on the screen made my stomach flip. Lydia.
We hadn’t spoken in months, not since the funeral, and even then, it was only tense small talk.
I hesitated, then picked up. “Hello?”
“Hey,” Lydia said quickly, skipping any kind of greeting. “I need a favor. I think Grandma kept a packet of my documents at her house. Really important stuff. I need to get them.”
I frowned. “What kind of documents?”
“Just… papers. Birth stuff. School stuff. I don’t know. Can I come by and grab them?”
Something about the way she rushed through her words made my skin prickle. Still, she was family.
“I’m leaving for a work trip tomorrow,” I told her. “Can it wait a couple days? I’ll be back Thursday.”
“No, it can’t wait,” she snapped. “Please, just leave me the keys. I’ll be quick.”
Her sharp tone made me pause. Lydia never asked without an edge. But I sighed anyway. “Fine. I’ll leave them under the doormat.”
“Thanks.” She hung up without saying goodbye.
I was gone for one night.
When I came back, the outside looked untouched. The flower pots still sat crooked, the porch swing creaked lazily in the breeze. For a moment, I thought maybe I was just being paranoid.
Then I opened the door.
The smell hit me like a punch — sour milk mixed with rotten food. My stomach turned.
The living room looked like a tornado had thrown a frat party. Fast-food wrappers everywhere. Greasy burger boxes dripping sauce. Soda cans rolling on the floor. Chips crushed into the carpet like confetti.
My chest tightened. I dropped my bag and walked down the hallway, my heart pounding as I reached Gran’s bedroom — the room I hadn’t touched since she died.
When I opened the door, my knees nearly buckled.
Red and black paint smeared across the wallpaper, wild and violent. The bed was shredded, feathers floating in the air like snow. Greasy handprints streaked the closet. Candy wrappers spilled from drawers.
It wasn’t just a mess. It was destruction.
My hands shook as I pulled out my phone and called her.
Lydia picked up immediately.
“What did you do?!” I cried. “Why would you trash the house? And Grandma’s room? How could you?”
There was silence. Then her voice came, cold as ice.
“Oh, don’t play innocent. You know why. Grandma left the house to you. It should’ve been mine. You don’t deserve it.”
My chest burned. “You barely even visited her! You never helped. You weren’t there!”
She laughed, sharp and cruel. “Doesn’t matter. You got what I wanted. So I made sure you wouldn’t enjoy it.”
And then she hung up.
I stood there, phone pressed to my ear, staring at the floating feathers.
She hadn’t wanted documents. She wanted revenge.
The next morning, I rolled up my sleeves.
At the hardware store, I filled a cart with gloves, sponges, bleach, trash bags, and enough lemon cleaner to scrub a motel. The cashier eyed my pile.
“Big mess?” she asked.
I forced a smile. “Something like that.”
Back home, I tied up my hair and started scrubbing. The smell clung to everything. It clung to me. No matter how much I washed, I couldn’t get rid of it.
Gran’s bedroom broke me the most. No amount of scrubbing could erase those red and black streaks. I tried everything — vinegar, baking soda, internet hacks. Nothing worked. Finally, I hired painters.
When they saw the walls, one of them asked, “Prank war gone too far?”
“No,” I said tightly. “Just someone with no respect for the dead.”
They painted over it, and when I stepped into the clean room two days later, I almost cried. But the house no longer smelled like Gran. That was what hurt the most.
I rented a carpet cleaner, scraped hardened cheese off Gran’s old recliner, and cried when I realized the couch couldn’t be saved. I hauled furniture to the dump myself. A worker shook his head, muttering, “Looks like this thing’s been through a war.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” I whispered.
Piece by piece, I replaced what was lost. Simple furniture, nothing fancy. A loveseat, a small table, a chair that felt just a little like Gran’s old one.
But Lydia’s words still echoed in my head: It should’ve been mine.
She thought this was over.
So I called a lawyer. Michelle. No-nonsense, sharp-eyed, and steady.
I showed her everything: the photos, the receipts, even the texts.
“This is solid,” she said. “She won’t walk away from this.”
“Even if she denies it?” I asked.
Michelle smirked. “We’ll make it stick.”
And she did. Weeks later, the court ruled in my favor. Lydia was legally responsible for every penny I spent repairing the house.
For the first time since this started, I smiled.
But I didn’t just want her to get a letter. I wanted her to feel it.
So I packed the court order and receipts in a cardboard box, tied it with a pink ribbon, and added a card: From the home you destroyed.
I left it on her porch.
Ten minutes later, my phone rang.
“WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?!” Lydia shrieked.
I stayed calm. “That’s a court order. You’re legally responsible. You’re going to pay for every wall, every bag of trash, every pillow you shredded.”
“You’re insane! You actually went to court over this?!”
“Yes. I did.”
She cursed, spitting threats. “You think you’ve won?”
I waited, then said softly, “No. Grandma won. Because you didn’t take her house. And now you’ll pay for trying.”
I hung up.
The payments came slowly. Small checks, each signed with sarcastic notes like Enjoy, Princess. I didn’t care. I cashed every one.
The house grew quiet again. Peaceful. Not the same as before — it never would be — but safe.
At night, I’d sit in my new chair with a cup of tea, the lights off, the house still. Sometimes I’d walk into Gran’s room, sit on the bed, and whisper:
“Got her back, Gran. She didn’t win.”
One day, I slid the framed court ruling into her desk drawer, beside her Bible and the photo of her holding my mom’s hands.
It felt like putting something broken back where it belonged.
I didn’t need to brag. I didn’t need revenge beyond this. Because Gran had always told me: You’re stronger than you think, Elena.
And for the first time in my life, I believed her.