I stood at the edge of the grave with my hands clenched tight. Grandma had been gone three days, and that morning the will had been read. The two-million-dollar house went to my sister Olivia—the one who flew in twice a year, stayed forty-eight hours, took porch selfies, and left before the laundry finished. I was the one who visited every Saturday for five years, bringing groceries, fixing the Wi-Fi, unclogging the sink, and sitting through the same stories as if they were new. At the lawyer’s office I said nothing. At the funeral the words rose on their own. “Congratulations,” I said, “on monetizing your absence.” Olivia smirked.

Two weeks later my phone rang at 6:12 a.m. Olivia’s voice was sharp with panic. The foundation was compromised and had been shifting for years. The roof needed replacing. The plumbing was original. There were four hundred thousand dollars in back property taxes. She had found a letter from Grandma explaining that the house would be a burden, not a gift—that it would take constant money and management and would swallow anyone unprepared. Grandma had written that she knew Olivia could handle the financial responsibility. Olivia’s bitter laugh followed. “My inheritance? A beautiful, rotting money pit.”