At 20, I was the youngest of eight grandchildren when Grandpa Thomas passed away.

While the others obsessed over his wealth,

I held tight to our weekends together—chess matches,

shared meals, and long talks about his life.

They teased me, calling me “teacher’s pet,” but I didn’t mind.

He wasn’t just my grandfather—he was my closest friend.

At the will reading, every relative received $200,000.

When the lawyer revealed that I was given the old farmhouse,

the room burst into laughter. “She got mold and memories,”

one cousin joked. But where they saw a crumbling relic,

I saw the heart of Grandpa’s legacy.

When I moved in, I found a hidden room behind a bookshelf—stuffed with his textile patents, journals,

and unfinished business plans. Inspired,

I poured everything into bringing his vision to life,

launching a fabric line right from that house.

Over time, the business soared—and so did their envy.

Now, the same people who laughed ask for favors and investments.

I smile, decline, and keep building.

By the fire, beneath his photo on the mantle,

I whisper, “We did it, Grandpa.” They wanted quick cash—but I inherited something far greater. And they’ll never laugh again.