When my grandmother became seriously ill, the house felt different—like the walls themselves were holding their breath. One night she held my hand tightly, asked me again not to forget the rosebush, and told me she had arranged things so the house would go to my mother and me. After she passed, grief came first… then the shock. My aunt Karen arrived from the city, confident and put-together, and before we could even begin to heal, she produced a different will claiming the house was hers. We searched everywhere for the original paperwork, but it was nowhere to be found. Without the money or strength for a long legal battle, my mother and I had no choice but to leave. We packed our lives into boxes and moved into a small cottage across town, carrying heartbreak with us. Still, through everything, I never forgot the rosebush—or the way my grandmother looked when she asked me to dig it up.
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