For two years, life was peaceful.
I slowly renovated the house, room by room, honoring my grandparents’ aesthetic. My friends came over for dinner parties. I hosted charity book swaps in the garden. I even adopted a tabby cat I named Minerva.
But my family? They never let it go.
During holidays, they’d make snide remarks:
“Living the mansion life, huh?”
“Must be nice not to have to work.”
“Grandma and Grandpa always spoiled you.”
Still, I kept my distance. I ignored the bitterness.
