After My Grandma’s Death, My Husband Rushed Me to Sell Her House — When I Learned the Reason, I Was Furious and Made Him Regret It

We have twin girls, Ellie and June. They’re four years old, and somehow, they got all of Paul’s genes. Golden curls, dimpled cheeks, and those bright blue eyes that sparkle when they’re about to do something they shouldn’t. I love them more than anything, even when they leave Play-Doh stuck in the carpet or spill juice on the couch for the hundredth time.

From the outside, our life looked perfect. We lived in a cozy house with white shutters and a lemon tree in the backyard. On Sundays, we walked hand in hand to the farmer’s market, sipping coffee while the girls picked out tiny jars of honey.

Friday nights were movie nights, usually “Moana” or “Frozen” for what felt like the millionth time, and the girls always fell asleep in a tangled heap before the movie ended. Paul would carry them upstairs, and afterward, we would finish the popcorn together in silence.

He never forgot birthdays or anniversaries. Sometimes, I’d find sticky notes on the bathroom mirror with little hearts drawn on them. He used to tell me I was the “calm” in his storm. And I believed him. I really did. Because when you’re living inside love, it doesn’t feel like a fairytale. It feels like gravity, steady, invisible, and always there.

But everything started to shift the day my grandmother died.

She was 92 and still lived in the same small house where she had raised my mom. It sat quietly on a hill, surrounded by hydrangeas and old oak trees. That house was my second home growing up.

She used to bake lavender cookies and pour tea into mismatched cups while telling me stories about her childhood during the war. The whole place always smelled like her. Lavender soap, Earl Grey tea, and that faint powdery perfume she never stopped wearing.

Paul came with me to the funeral, holding my hand so tightly it almost hurt. I remember glancing at him during the service. His jaw was tense. His eyes looked damp and tired.

I thought he was grieving with me. I thought he understood. But now I’m not so sure.

After the service, while the girls stayed with my sister, I went back to Grandma’s house alone to collect the last of her things. I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to it. Not yet.

Paul wasn’t happy about that.

“We need the money, not your memories,” he said, standing in the doorway with his arms crossed, his voice low but edged with irritation.

I turned to look at him, confused. “The money? Paul, it’s barely been three days since she passed. Can’t we just… slow down a bit?”