My father passed away, and my family and I gathered at his farm for the reading of his will. We hadnât seen each other in yearsâmostly because of money disputes and petty argumentsâbut my brother, Mark, walked in looking smug.
Before the lawyer even sat down, Mark confidently said, âWell, look, letâs make this quick. The dusty old farm and the house go to Jen, obviously. She likes that rustic stuff. And I get the BANK ACCOUNTS and his vintage watch collection. Thatâs fair. End of story.â
He looked around the room, expecting us to just roll over. We all nodded in agreement, mostly just to avoid a fight. I was actually fine with the farm; it held all my childhood memories.
But the lawyer, Mr. Henderson, didnât open the main file. Instead, he pulled out a thick, sealed red envelope and cleared his throat.
âNOT EXACTLY!â he boomed.
Markâs smile vanished. âExcuse me?â
âYour father anticipated this exact conversation,â Mr. Henderson said, adjusting his glasses. âWhen the will was drafted, he added a specific clause. It turns out, you will only inherit anythingâthe money, the watches, or the farmâunder ONE CONDITION.â
Our jaws dropped. The lawyer began to read:
âI, Thomas Pederson, leave my entire estate to my two children, Jennifer and Mark, to be split 50/50. However, this inheritance is contingent upon them living together in the farmhouse for exactly six months. They must restore the main barn to its original condition within that time, working together, without hiring outside contractors. If either child leaves the property for more than 48 hours, or if the barn is not finished, the entire estate will be liquidated and donated to the Donkey Rescue Sanctuary.â
Mark exploded. âYouâre joking! I have a life! I have a condo in the city! I canât live in this dump for six months with her!â
âThen the donkeys will live like kings,â Mr. Henderson said calmly, closing the folder. âThe clock starts now.â
The first month was a nightmare. Mark refused to lift a finger. He paced around the living room in his Italian loafers, complaining about the WiFi and trying to find loopholes in the contract. I was out in the barn every day, hauling rotten wood and sweating through my clothes.
âYouâre going to lose us the money!â I screamed at him one night over dinner. âDad did this because we havenât spoken in five years, Mark! He wanted us to be a family again!â
âHe did this to torture me,â Mark spat back.
But the turning point came in month three. A massive storm hit the county. The roof of the barnâthe one I had just started patchingâbegan to leak dangerously. I was up on the ladder, slipping in the rain, crying because I couldnât hold the tarp down alone.
Suddenly, I felt a hand grab the other side of the tarp. It was Mark. He was wearing Dadâs old oversized raincoat and ruined his expensive shoes, but he hammered that tarp down with me. We spent the next six hours bailing water and reinforcing the beams.
By morning, we were exhausted, covered in mud, and sitting on the barn floor drinking cold coffee.
âI missed this place,â Mark admitted quietly, looking up at the rafters. âI missed us.â
For the next three months, we didnât just work; we talked. We unpacked years of resentment. We found Dadâs old journals in the attic and read them aloud to each other. We realized he wasnât playing a game; he was giving us a second chance.
When the six months were up, Mr. Henderson returned. The barn looked magnificentâbetter than it had in twenty years.
âWell done,â the lawyer said. âThe assets are yours. Mark, the accounts are being transferred. Jen, the deed is ready.â
Mark looked at the lawyer, then at me. âActually,â Mark said, âdonât transfer the money yet. Put it into the farm account. Jen and I are going to turn this place into a bed and breakfast. Weâre partners.â
I smiled, tearing up. Dad didnât just leave us money; he gave me my brother back. And that was worth more than any watch collection.
