I Always Thought My Grandpa Was a Simple Farmer, Until I Found What He Hid in the Barn!

When Grandpa died last winter, I expected grief. What I didn’t expect was the will.

We all assumed modest inheritances. He lived plainly, drove a rattling old truck, patched his clothes, refused gifts. My uncles and cousins figured the farm would go to the eldest grandson, or maybe to my mom, his only daughter.

But the farm went to me.

The condition was clear: I couldn’t sell it. I had to keep it running, or it would be donated to a wildlife foundation. The others received cash—anywhere from $5,000 to $50,000. But the land, the heart of everything, was mine.

My cousin Brent was furious. Outside the lawyer’s office, he cornered me.

“What did you do to get the farm? Sweet-talk the old man?”

I told him the truth: I didn’t do anything but spend time with him. Maybe that was enough.

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