The Duplex Inheritance Disaster That Brought Us Back Together
Inheriting Grandma’s duplex should’ve been simple. Amanda was supposed to get the second floor. I was supposed to get the first floor, with the garden and the pool. Clean. Fair. Done.
But that house had a secret, and we had no idea what we were stepping into.
After Grandma passed, my sister Amanda and I were handed what some might call a “gift”… others might call it a curse wrapped in bricks. Grandma left us her old duplex in the city.
I got the first floor—with the sunny garden I loved and the deep-blue pool where I used to swim all summer. Amanda got the second floor. We were sitting in the notary’s office when the bomb dropped.
“Why do YOU get the garden and the pool? I’ve always wanted those!” Amanda screeched, her voice bouncing off the walls like a siren. The poor notary looked like he wanted to vanish behind his stack of papers.
I turned to her, trying to stay calm. “You know I grew up here,” I said. “Grandma and I spent every season in that garden. It’s… sentimental.”
Amanda rolled her eyes so hard I thought they might fall out. “Sentiment doesn’t pay bills. Do you even know how much it costs to maintain a pool? You’ll be broke by June.”
She leaned back, and I could practically see the wheels turning in her head. “Let’s combine the house. Share the pool. Think of the savings! I have the money for that. But you… don’t be silly!”
I saw right through her. “Your family can come swim if you care so much. As for the bills… I’ll manage.”
Amanda smiled sweetly, too sweetly. Like a cat who just saw a trapped bird. “Suit yourself. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
A week later, I moved in.
If you think this is the part where Amanda and I hug it out and share tea on the porch like sisters in a movie—wrong. The peace lasted three days.
Then her kids invaded.
Not just visited. Invaded.
My balcony became a war zone. Juice boxes were flying. Candy wrappers floated down like confetti. It was like living underneath a sugar-storm.
One evening, I stood there with my hands on my hips. “Amanda!” I yelled up toward her balcony.
She peeked over the railing, sipping wine. “Oops,” she said with a shrug. “Kids will be kids.”
I narrowed my eyes. “They’re not MY kids.”
But it wasn’t just the mess. Oh no. It was the noise. Mornings began with stomping—like an elephant parade. Afternoons? Basketballs bouncing inside her apartment. And evenings? Bowling. I swear on Grandma’s rose bushes.
I was holding on by a thread.
Then came the night that broke me.
I was sitting on my patio during a quiet snowfall, sipping warm mulled wine, thinking maybe—maybe—this could work. When suddenly—
Plop.
A muddy sneaker dropped from Amanda’s balcony. Right into my wine pitcher.
Her laughter drifted down seconds later.
I stormed upstairs, soaking wet and furious, holding the wine-covered shoe like evidence from a crime scene. She opened the door, grinning like she was about to win a game show.
“Oh, relax, Ems. It’s just a shoe.”
“It’s your kid’s shoe. In my wine.”
She winked. “Maybe it’s a sign. Sell me your share and find somewhere quieter. Win-win!”
I turned around without another word and marched back downstairs. She was still laughing. But I had bigger things to worry about—like finishing my paintings for an upcoming art show. I’d already spent my advance. Bills were stacking up. And thanks to Amanda, I couldn’t find peace anywhere.
Then, one night at 2 a.m., I heard it. Water.
My eyes flew open.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
I rushed to the living room—and gasped. My ceiling was crying. Water poured down from a growing dark spot. My cozy little home was turning into a soggy disaster.
“Oh no, no, no…” I whispered, panicking.
I grabbed a bucket, but the water didn’t care. It just spread faster.
So I threw on a robe, stomped upstairs, soaking wet and done with being nice. Amanda opened the door like I was dropping by for cookies.
“Ems! What brings you here at this hour?” she asked, acting like we were at a pajama party.
I pointed toward her floor. “You’re flooding me. What happened?!”
Amanda blinked innocently. “Flooding? Really? Oh… must be the pipes. This house is so old, you know.”
Then her husband Jack showed up behind her, holding a flashlight like he was about to search for ghosts. “Don’t worry,” he said, clearly unhelpful. “We’ve called Ryan, the plumber. He’ll be here any minute.”
“Define ‘any minute’, because my ceiling is starting to look like a swimming pool.”
Right then, the doorbell rang. And in walked Ryan.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, and smirking like he owned the world. A wrench slung over his shoulder like it was part of his outfit.
“Where’s the damage?” he asked casually.
“Everywhere,” I said, waving toward the chaos.
Ryan crouched under the sink, tools clinking, while I stood back, arms crossed, heart pounding.
A few minutes later, he stood up, looking like a teacher handing back a failing grade.
“The pipes are ancient,” he said. “And the pool’s part of the problem.”
“The pool?” I said. “How is the pool leaking into my ceiling?”
“The plumbing for the pool was connected to the main system. Badly. Over time, pressure built up. That pressure blew the pipes upstairs.”
Amanda clapped her hands like she’d just won a bet. “See, Ems? You don’t want Grandma’s house to fall apart, do you?”
I swallowed hard. “How much?”
Ryan rattled off a number that made my brain melt. I actually laughed out loud. It was that or cry.
Amanda leaned in close. “You know… this wouldn’t be your problem if you just sold me your half.”
I backed away. “Like I’m living in your soap opera? No thanks.”
I went back to my apartment and stared at my ruined paintings. They looked like they’d been weeping with me—colors bled, paper warped. My dreams, literally soaked.
Then I noticed an envelope on the table. My dad’s handwriting.
“Emily,
Please come to Christmas dinner.
Let’s leave the past behind us.
Love,
Dad.”
I hadn’t spoken much to him since Mom died. We drifted after he remarried. But at that moment… I needed someone.
Dad’s house was glowing with Christmas lights. The smell of gingerbread hung in the air as I walked up the snowy path.
He opened the door, eyes lighting up. “Emily! You made it!”
“Merry Christmas, Dad.”
He pulled me into a hug. For the first time in a long time, I felt like a daughter again—not just someone trying to hold it all together.
Inside, everything looked warm and cozy. Amanda was already there with her kids. Jack was chatting with Dad’s new wife, Vivian.
And then… I saw Ryan.
Standing by the fireplace. Drinking eggnog. Looking like he belonged.
“Wait… you’re here?” I blurted out. “Why is the plumber at Christmas dinner?”
Ryan grinned. “Funny question—considering I’m your new stepbrother.”
My jaw dropped. “Stepbrother?!”
Vivian stepped over. “Ryan’s my son. He’s staying for the holidays. I didn’t realize you two had met already.”
“Met?! He gave me a plumbing quote that could bankrupt a millionaire!”
Ryan just smiled, totally calm. “Jack asked for help. I needed cash. Win-win, right?”
Amanda chimed in, lounging on the couch. “Honestly, Ems, what’s the point? That house is falling apart. Let it go.”
“You don’t care about the house,” I snapped. “You just want to win.”
Even Jack tried to intervene. “Maybe we should…”
“No, Jack!” Amanda cut him off. “She needs to hear this. Emily is too stubborn to see the truth!”
That’s when Dad raised his voice.
“Enough!”
We all froze.
He pulled out a folded piece of paper. “This is the real will. My mother left ME the house—not you two.”
Amanda and I stared, speechless.
“I made the fake split to see if you two could get along. Clearly, you couldn’t,” Dad said, disappointed. “So if you can’t live there peacefully, I’ll sell the house myself. Neither of you will get a single cent.”
It hit us like a slap. Amanda sat down, stunned. So did I.
The house that once brought us together… was tearing us apart.
Surprisingly, the next few months weren’t total chaos.
Amanda and I called a truce—an awkward, eye-rolling truce, but still.
One afternoon, we stood in the dining room, staring at Grandma’s old wallpaper.
“You know, this wallpaper has to go,” Amanda said, scrunching her nose.
“Are you offering to help scrape it off?”
She smirked, grabbing a scraper. “Don’t get used to it. I have my limits.”
Slowly, we fixed the place up. Amanda even let her kids play in the garden—but under new rules. No trash. No chaos. No sneakers flying from balconies.
Ryan made up for everything in a way I never saw coming. He restored my paintings himself. They looked… brand new.
“These are perfect,” I whispered. “How did you—?”
“Restoration’s a hobby,” he said, shrugging. “Also, I told your gallery the delay was my fault. They’re giving you another shot.”
By summer, the house looked like a dream. Fresh paint. Happy kids. Less yelling.
We threw a family barbecue. Amanda flipped burgers like a pro. I set the table with mismatched plates that somehow looked perfect. Dad sat on the patio, grandkids on his lap, laughing. Jack told bad dad jokes with Ryan, who had finally become more than just “the plumber.”
Amanda nudged me as I carried out drinks.
“This isn’t so bad, is it?”
I smiled. “It’s not bad at all.”
And just like that, I finally understood what Grandma really left us. Not just a house. But a chance—to rebuild something we’d lost.
Family.
