I always thought Mr. Sloan, my grumpy old neighbor, existed solely to torment me. From sabotaging my rose garden to complaining about my every move, he seemed to thrive on conflict. So when he passed away suddenly, I felt more relief than grief—until his lawyer summoned me to the reading of his will.
To my shock, Mr. Sloan had left me his house. But there was a catch: I had to take in and care for an elderly woman named Rose, for as long as she wished to stay.
Desperate to escape my draining rental and rebuild my ruined flower business, I accepted. At first, Rose seemed gentle and grateful. But soon, her requests grew relentless—steamed broccoli, peeled tomatoes, midnight milk runs, and endless errands. I was exhausted, frustrated, and questioning my decision.
Then I found an old box in the garage. Inside were faded photographs—one of a woman who looked eerily like me, holding a baby beside a young Mr. Sloan. On the back: “Rose and my girl, August 1985.”
Rose revealed the truth. She and Mr. Sloan had once been young lovers. The baby in the photo was their daughter—given up for adoption in hopes of a better life. That daughter… was me.
Mr. Sloan had spent years searching for me, watching me from across the fence, never revealing the truth. His final act wasn’t revenge—it was redemption. He gave me a home, a chance to reconnect with my birth mother, and a garden full of roses to rebuild my dreams.
I had inherited more than a house. I inherited a truth that changed everything.
