Inheriting Grandma’s duplex should’ve been straightforward. Amanda got the second floor, and I got the first, with the garden and pool. But the house held a secret neither of us was ready for.

After our grandmother passed away, my sister Amanda and I were handed what some would call an “inheritance.” Others might call it a treasure. Grandma decided to leave us her duplex.

I was awarded the first floor, garden, and pool, while Amanda was handed the second floor. At first glance, it seemed fair. Then Amanda opened her mouth.

“Why do YOU get the garden and the pool? I’ve always wanted those!” she declared dramatically, her voice echoing in the notary’s quiet office. The poor man shuffled his papers awkwardly, clearly rethinking his life choices.

“You know I grew up here,” I reminded her. “Grandma and I spent every season in her garden. It’s… sentimental.”

Amanda rolled her eyes. “Sentiment doesn’t pay the bills. Do you even know how much it costs to maintain a pool? You’ll be broke by June.”

She paused, an idea visibly taking shape. “Let’s combine the house. Share the pool. Think of the savings! I have money for that. But you… don’t be silly!”

I shook my head, sensing the trap. “Your family can come to swim in the pool if you care. As for the bills… I’ll manage.”

Amanda smiled too sweetly, like a cat about to pounce. “Suit yourself, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

A week later, I moved in. If you’re picturing a warm, welcoming, sisterly reunion, let me stop you right there. The first few days were quiet, but then Amanda’s kids found their way onto my balcony.

By “found,” I mean they launched an all-out assault with juice boxes and candy wrappers. It was like living under a sugar-fueled siege.

“Oops,” Amanda said one evening, leaning over the railing when I confronted her. “Kids will be kids.”

I gritted my teeth. “They’re not MY kids.”

The noise wasn’t much better. Mornings started with the thundering of what I could only assume was a herd of elephants.

Afternoons brought the rhythmic thud of a basketball indoors.

And evenings? Bowling. Yes, bowling. Upstairs.

Then came the final straw. I was enjoying a rare moment of peace on my snowy patio, a glass of mulled wine in hand, when a muddy sneaker tumbled from Amanda’s balcony, landing with a “plop” in my pitcher.

Amanda’s laughter drifted down a moment later.

“Really, Amanda?” I marched upstairs, holding the evidence like a murder weapon.

She opened the door, grinning like she’d just won a prize. “Oh, relax, Ems. It’s just a shoe.”

“It’s your kid’s shoe. In my wine.”

“Maybe it’s a sign,” she quipped. “Sell me your share and find somewhere quieter. Win-win!”

I stormed back downstairs, her laughter trailing behind me. I had bigger things to worry about—like finishing my paintings for an exhibition. The advance was already spent, and the bills were piling up.

But between Amanda’s antics and the circus upstairs, my inspiration was as drained as my patience. The real battle hadn’t even begun.

At 2 a.m., I woke up to the sound of water. My first thought was rain.

When I opened my eyes, the ceiling above my living room was practically crying. A dark stain spread like an inkblot in a bad mystery novel, and droplets pattered onto the floor.

“Oh no, no, no,” I whispered, rushing for a bucket.

I placed it under the leak, but the water seemed to laugh at my attempt, spreading even faster.

By the time I threw on a robe and stomped upstairs, I was dripping with frustration. Amanda opened the door, looking annoyingly unfazed.

“Ems!” she greeted me like a game show host. “What brings you here at this hour?”

I pointed at her floor, or rather, my ceiling. “You’re flooding me. What happened?”

Amanda’s face was a portrait of mock surprise. “Flooding? Really? Oh, must be the pipes. This house is so old, you know.”

Her husband, Jack, appeared behind her with a flashlight, looking as if he was auditioning for a role as a clueless handyman. “Don’t worry, we’ve called Ryan, the plumber. He’ll be here any minute.”

“Define ‘any minute’ because downstairs looks like a Monet painting. Wet and ruined.”

Before Amanda could whip out another one of her excuses, the doorbell rang. Enter Ryan. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and had the kind of smirk that screamed “trouble.” With a wrench casually slung over his shoulder, he stepped inside as though he owned the place.

“Where’s the damage?” he asked.

“Everywhere,” I muttered, motioning toward the chaos.

Ryan crouched under the sink, tools clinking.

After a few minutes, he emerged with a look of mild disappointment, like a teacher grading a paper that barely passed. “The pipes are ancient, and the burst upstairs is just the beginning. The pool is partially to blame.”

I blinked. “The pool? How is the pool causing water to drip into my ceiling?”

He sighed. “The plumbing for the pool is poorly connected to the house’s main system. Over time, pressure built up, straining the pipes. The burst upstairs is a result of that strain.”

Amanda smiled, triumphant. “See, Ems? You don’t want Grandma’s duplex to crumble, do you?”

“How much?” I asked, bracing myself.

He rattled off a number so astronomical I laughed. It was either that or cry.

Amanda leaned in, her voice taking on a conspiratorial whisper. “You know, this wouldn’t be such a problem if you’d just sell me your share.”

“Like hosting your own soap opera? No thanks.”

Back in my apartment, I stared at the remains of my paintings—soaked and warped, their colors bleeding like my patience. I was about to give in to despair when my eyes landed on an envelope on the table.

My dad’s handwriting stared back at me:

“Emily, please come to Christmas dinner. Let’s leave the past behind us. Love, Dad.”

I hesitated, the weight of old grievances holding me back. I hadn’t spoken much to him since my mother’s passing, and his remarriage only deepened the rift. But with no one else to turn to… Grudges or not, I needed a lifeline.

My dad’s house was the embodiment of holiday cheer. Twinkling lights framed the windows, and the rich smell of gingerbread wafted through the air as I walked up the snowy path. The laughter inside was warm and inviting, everything my chaotic duplex wasn’t.

When Dad opened the door, his face broke into a broad grin. “Emily! You made it!”

“Merry Christmas, Dad.”

He pulled me into a bear hug, and for a moment, I let myself feel like a kid again. Just me and my dad before life got complicated.

Inside, the scene was picture-perfect. Amanda and her kids were already there, her husband Jack chatting easily with my dad’s new wife, Vivian. And then I saw Ryan, the so-called plumber. He was standing by the fireplace, holding a glass of eggnog as if he belonged there.

“Wait… you’re here?” The words flew out of my mouth. “Why is the plumber at Christmas dinner?”

“Funny question,” Ryan replied, clearly enjoying my confusion. “Considering I’m your new stepbrother.”

My jaw dropped. “Stepbrother?”

Vivian stepped in. “Ryan is my son. He’s staying with us for the holidays. I had no idea you two had already met.”

“Met?” I repeated, still in shock. “He gave me a plumbing quote that could fund a small country!”

Ryan shrugged, completely unbothered. “Jack needed a favor. I needed cash. Win-win, right?”

“You gave me a quote that could bankrupt a lottery winner and didn’t even blink.

Ryan held up his hands in mock surrender, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Hey, don’t shoot the messenger. I just fixed the pipes.”

Amanda smirked from her spot on the couch. “Honestly, Ems, what’s the point? Maybe Ryan’s quote was a little high. But stop clinging to that house like it’s some masterpiece. Spoiler alert: it’s not. It’s falling apart.”

“You don’t care about the house, Amanda. You just want to win,” I snapped.

Jack, who had been unusually quiet, suddenly cleared his throat. “Maybe we should…”

“No, Jack!” Amanda cut him off. “She needs to hear this. Emily is too stubborn to face the truth.”

“Enough!” Dad’s voice finally appeared like a thunderclap. “This nonsense ends now. Sit down and listen. It’s time you all know the truth.”

Everyone froze as he unfolded the paper. “This is the real will. My mother, your grandma, left ME the house, not you two.”

Amanda and I stared at him, stunned.

“I created the fake division because I thought it would teach you two to get along. Clearly, that didn’t work.” He looked at us, his gaze sharp. “If you can’t live there peacefully, I’ll take back the house and sell it myself. Neither of you will see a penny from it.”

His words hung in the air like a lead weight. For once, Amanda didn’t have a comeback. I sank into a chair.

The rift between us had grown so wide that even Grandma’s home, the one place that used to bring us together, couldn’t hold us anymore.

The next few months were, surprisingly, not the disaster I had braced myself for. Amanda and I found a fragile truce, the kind that came with equal parts effort and eye-rolls.

“Are you offering to help scrape it off?”

She smirked, grabbing a scraper. “Don’t get used to it. I have my limits.”

It wasn’t just cosmetic changes. Amanda actually pitched in to fix the place up, though not without commentary.

Meanwhile, I decided to let her kids play in the garden, under strict supervision. No juice boxes, no candy wrappers, and absolutely no muddy sneakers.

Ryan decided to make amends most unexpectedly. He restored my paintings so flawlessly they looked as if the disaster had never happened.

My jaw dropped as I examined each piece. The colors were vibrant, the textures perfectly matched, and not a single sign of damage remained.

He grinned. “Turns out, I’m pretty good with a brush. Restoration is a bit of a hobby.”

“These look better than they did before. Thank you.”

“I also contacted the exhibition organizers. Told them the delay was my fault, not yours. They’ve agreed to review your work again.”

By the time summer rolled around, the house had transformed inside and out. To celebrate, we decided to host a family barbecue. Amanda manned the grill, flipping burgers with surprising skill, while I set the table with mismatched plates that somehow worked together.

Dad sat on the patio, a grandkid on each knee, laughing at their antics. Even Amanda’s husband, Jack, had relaxed, sipping lemonade and swapping dad jokes with Ryan.

As I carried a tray of drinks outside, Amanda nudged me. “This isn’t so bad, is it?”

“No,” I said, smiling. “It’s not bad at all.”

And as we all sat down to eat, I realized Grandma’s true gift. Our house was the reminder of what family could be when we stopped fighting and started listening.