I never liked my neighbor, Mr. Sloan.
To be honest, that’s putting it mildly. He was rude, controlling, and constantly complained about everything—from my trash bins to how loudly I closed my door. We argued more times than I could count, and by the end, we barely spoke at all.
So when I received a call from a lawyer saying Mr. Sloan had passed away and wanted me present for something important, I assumed it was a mistake.
Why would I be involved in anything related to him?
Sitting in the lawyer’s office, I made that clear. We weren’t friends. We weren’t family. We barely tolerated each other.
That’s when the lawyer looked at me and said something that made my head spin.
Mr. Sloan had left everything to me.
His house.
His property.
Everything—worth over $400,000.
I laughed at first. Surely this was some mix-up.
But it wasn’t.
The lawyer assured me the will was clear and legally sound. My name was there—mine alone.
Then came the condition.
To inherit anything, I had to live in the house for one full year without selling it, renting it out, or making major changes.
At first, I was suspicious. Why me? Why not family? Why not friends?
The answer came a week later, hidden inside an old letter I found in the house.
Mr. Sloan had been alone. Estranged from his family. Bitter, yes—but also deeply lonely. In his letter, he admitted something shocking.
I was the only person who ever stood up to him.
The only one who treated him like a human being instead of quietly disappearing.
He said our arguments made him feel less invisible.
I stayed.
A year passed.
By the time it ended, I realized the inheritance wasn’t just money or property—it was a lesson.
Sometimes the people who seem hardest to deal with are the ones who needed someone the most.
