When my grandfather passed, he left me the farm where I’d spent countless childhood summers. But there was one strange condition: I had to sleep in the barn on the first night—without leaving. If I failed, the farm would go to someone else. I agreed, thinking it was just Grandpa’s quirky way of honoring tradition.

That night, I laid down on the hay, exhausted. But hours later, strange noises outside jolted me awake. I heard the house door slam—though I was sure I’d locked it. Torn between fear and curiosity, I convinced myself that checking wouldn’t count as breaking the rule. I left the barn.

Inside, everything seemed fine until I opened the basement door. To my horror, I found a fully furnished hidden apartment—and my estranged mother standing beside a teenage girl. Moments later, Uncle Joe appeared, smug. “You left the barn. The farm’s hers now,” he said, pointing at the girl—his daughter. My mother had cheated on Dad with his own brother.

I was furious, but I left without a word. The next morning, while packing, an envelope fell from a shelf. It was a letter from Grandpa—and a copy of the original will. No conditions. Just my name on everything.

When Uncle Joe returned, I confronted him. “I have the real will,” I said. His face turned pale.

Hours later, I watched them drive away—my mother, Uncle Joe, and their daughter. They had tried to steal my inheritance. But Grandpa knew them better than I ever did.
The farm was mine.