I used to think my grumpy neighbor, Mr. Sloan, lived to ruin my peace. He constantly complained—once even reporting
me for using a leaf blower too early. But nothing could’ve prepared me for finding a pile of dirt ruining my rose garden,
my livelihood as a florist. Furious, I stormed over—only to learn Mr. Sloan had died of a heart attack the night before.
Then his lawyer told me I’d been left his entire property—on one condition: I had to care for an elderly woman named Rose, who would live there indefinitely.
Desperate, I agreed. Rose was demanding—midnight requests, picky meals, constant disruption. But one day, I found an old photo in Sloan’s garage:
Rose holding a baby beside a younger Mr. Sloan. On the back: “Rose and my girl. August 1985.” I was the baby. Rose was my mother. Sloan, my father.
Rose confirmed it—they had given me up and searched for years. Sloan had been next door all along, too ashamed to tell me.
His letter read: “I told myself I was protecting you… I’m sorry. Take care of her. Take care of you.”
It shattered me—but healed me too. Rose and I rebuilt the garden—and our bond. From strangers to family.
