I thought inheriting my grandma’s house would bring me peace. Instead, it started a war — one I never saw coming. And the person who lit the match? My own cousin.

I’m Elena, 27, a freelance illustrator. Most days, I sketch in cafés or on my porch, coffee in hand, my dog by my feet. It’s a quiet life, but it’s mine.

After my mom died when I was six, I moved in with my grandmother, Lily — Gran. She was everything: soft-voiced, stubborn, and endlessly kind. She filled the silence with humming and smelled like cinnamon and lavender. It was just us.

Gran’s other daughter, my aunt Greta, had a daughter too — Lydia, my cousin. We were never close. Lydia was all manicures and entitlement. She and her mom rarely visited, never helped when Gran got sick. It was always me.

When Gran passed last spring, she left me her house — a small cottage full of her scent, her things, her love. It wasn’t much, but it was home.

Then Lydia called. She said she needed to pick up “some important documents” Gran had kept. Against my better judgment, I left the key under the mat while I went on a work trip.

I was gone one night. When I came back, the house reeked. Trash everywhere. Food rotting. Gran’s bedroom vandalized — paint smeared across the walls, feathers floating in the air, everything ruined.

I called Lydia, shaking. She didn’t deny it. “You got what I wanted,” she said. “So I made sure you wouldn’t enjoy it.”

I could’ve broken down. Instead, I rolled up my sleeves. I cleaned until my hands blistered. When the paint wouldn’t come off, I hired painters. It cost me hundreds. I replaced everything Lydia destroyed, even though nothing could bring back Gran’s scent.

But when I was done, I wasn’t finished. I called a lawyer, showed her the photos, receipts, and texts. Weeks later, the court ruled in my favor. Lydia was ordered to pay every cent of the damage.

I sent her the ruling in a box tied with a pink ribbon. On the card: “From the home you destroyed.”

Her furious call came minutes later. “You actually went to court over this?!”
“Yes,” I said. “And I won.”
“No,” I added softly, “Gran won.”

Now, the house feels peaceful again. Sometimes I sit in her room, whispering, “Got her back, Gran.” And for the first time, I believe what Gran always told me: “You’re stronger than you think, Elena.”