After my grandmother died, my husband pushed me to sell her house almost immediately. At first, I thought he was just being practical. But a hidden letter in the attic revealed the truth—and changed everything. My life had always seemed calm and ordinary. I lived near Portland with my husband Paul and our four-year-old twin girls. We looked like the perfect family: cozy home, weekend routines, loving gestures. I believed in that life. I believed in him.
My grandmother was 92 when she passed, still living in the little house on the hill where I’d grown up. It was filled with lavender soap, old photos, and memories that still felt alive. Only three days after her funeral, Paul told me we needed to sell it.