PART 2 — HOW FAR HE WOULD GO
That evening, I told Glenn the property transfer was final.
He jumped up and hugged me.
“That’s incredible. It’s finally ours.”
“It’s mine,” I corrected. “Grandpa left it to me.”
“Of course,” Glenn said quickly. “That’s what I meant.”
During the following days, he transformed into the man I had spent eleven years waiting for.
He made coffee before I woke, brought home my favourite flowers and spoke constantly about our future.
The most painful part was realising that he had always known how to be thoughtful. He simply had not believed I deserved the effort until I owned something valuable.
His questions were always about money.
Was there a mortgage?
How many bedrooms were there?
How much could it earn as a holiday rental?
Could we sell while property prices were high?
When I spoke about Grandpa building the porch railing by hand, Glenn showed no interest.
He proposed three nights later at the restaurant where we had celebrated my first promotion.
“What changed?” I asked.
“I finally realised what I could lose.”
“The house?”
“You.”
Then he opened the ring box.
I accepted because I wanted the truth exposed in front of the people who knew us best.
My condition was that we announce the engagement during a small gathering at the lake house.
Two days later, Ivy followed me there.
I expected twelve guests.
Instead, cars lined the road. A large banner reading “OUR NEXT CHAPTER” stretched across Grandpa’s porch.
Glenn had invited relatives, friends, neighbours and even a property agent.
“We should show everyone our new investment,” he said.
“It isn’t an investment. It was Grandpa’s home.”
“It’s our home now.”
“No, Glenn. It isn’t.”
Then I noticed Grandpa’s handmade chair was missing.
I found it shoved into the garage beside boxes and folding tables.
Glenn explained that it did not match the decorations.
“It belonged to my grandfather.”
“It’s old,” he replied. “We can buy something better.”
“You removed it without asking me?”
“We needed the space. Stop making a scene.”
I ran my hand across the worn wooden armrest.
“No,” I said. “I think it’s time we finally had one.”
Outside, Glenn behaved as though he already owned the property. He spoke about renovating the kitchen and converting the house into a rental.
Then the property agent approached us carrying financial estimates.
“Glenn asked me to calculate the potential seasonal income,” he explained.
“He did not have my permission,” I said. “I am the sole owner.”
The agent apologised and walked away.
Glenn leaned toward me.
“You’re embarrassing me.”
“At my house?”
“It will become our house. Start behaving like we’re a team.”
A few minutes later, he raised his glass and gathered everyone on the porch.
“To our future,” he announced, placing an arm around me, “and to the smartest investment Lucy’s grandfather ever gave us.”
I stepped away.
“Grandpa did not give us anything.”
The gathering fell silent.
