Grief is hard enough without vultures circling. After my grandmother’s passing, I inherited her home—a place filled with warm memories. But the memory I’ll never forget is the day her neighbor, Mrs. Jenkins, marched onto my porch and demanded to see the will. She claimed my grandmother had promised things to her grandchildren and accused me of hiding the truth.
I was dealing with the loss of both my grandmother and my father, and this woman was harassing me about heirlooms. Her sense of entitlement was breathtaking. She wouldn’t take no for an answer, lingering on my porch as if she had a right to be there. I knew if I didn’t stand my ground now, the harassment would never end.
So, I fought fire with logic. I went inside, drafted up a simple document listing every cost associated with my grandmother’s final days and passing—the funeral, the lawyers, the medical bills. I handed it to her and said if she wanted to be treated like family when it came to inheritance, she could start by acting like family when it came to the debts.
The look on her face was priceless. The color drained, and her outrage vanished into sputtered excuses before she finally turned and left. Closing the door on her was one of the most satisfying moments of my life. I had not only defended my grandmother’s wishes but had also shown that entitlement has its limits. Some people only understand the language of cold, hard facts.
