My Grandmother Left Me Her Vermont Maple Farm. My Cousin’s Lawyer Came to Take It Away, and Fell in Love With It Instead

We opened it together that evening, at the kitchen table, with the woodstove crackling.

I knew I shouldn’t. She was the other side’s lawyer. But something about the way she’d asked made me trust her.

Inside the box were fifty years of Grandma Rose’s journals.

And a letter, in her handwriting, dated three years before she died.

“To whoever is reading this, which is probably Derek’s lawyer, because Derek has never done anything himself in his life.”

Callie choked on her coffee.

The letter went on for two pages. Grandma Rose explained, in very clear and very colorful language, exactly why she was leaving the farm to me. She listed every visit Derek had made, every time he’d asked for money, and the time he’d tried to get her to sign a power of attorney so he could sell the timber rights.

At the bottom, she’d written:

“I am of sound mind and I have never been more certain of anything. My lawyer has a copy of this, and so does my doctor, who has examined me every year and will tell you I’m sharper than both of you.”

She’d signed it. Her doctor had signed it. Her estate attorney had notarized it.

Callie put the letter down very slowly.

“Your cousin,” she said, “doesn’t have a case.”

“I know.”

“He never had a case.” She looked at me. “I’m going to recommend that he withdraw the contest. If he won’t, I’m going to withdraw as his lawyer.”

“Why would you do that?”

She looked out the dark window toward the sugarhouse, still glowing.

“Because my grandmother had a farm too,” she said. “In New Hampshire. My uncle contested her will. He won. They sold it to a ski resort.”