I thought I bought a peaceful countryside home—until I found the previous owner waltzing upstairs like she still lived there. Then I read the contract… and everything changed.

After a string of failed relationships—including a McDonald’s breakup and a cheating ex—I needed a fresh start. So I searched, half-jokingly, for a house where I could escape everything. That’s when I found it: a charming cottage in my hometown. The price was steep—until a quirky woman named Edna offered a deep discount… if I baked her a pie someday. I signed without reading the fine print.

The house was perfect—until I heard music upstairs. There was Edna, dancing like she never left. “Oh, sweetheart,” she said. “Didn’t you read the contract? One year. You, me, every day. Isn’t it magical?” I ran for the paperwork—and there it was: Clause 8. I had legally agreed to provide housing and companionship to Edna until a year passed… or she died. Whichever came first.

Living with Edna was chaos. She replaced my curtains with glow-in-the-dark geese, ruined my Zoom call with pancake clatter, and threw away my favorite underwear. I was losing my mind—until her grandson Jason showed up. A familiar face from college. Edna had planned this. But fate had plans too. One night, Jason and I stayed up talking until sunrise… and the next morning, I wore his hoodie, flipped pancakes, and flashed Edna her family sapphire on my ring finger. We weren’t married yet—but we were getting there. Turns out, Edna’s chaos brought me the peace I didn’t know I needed.