I used to think my grumpy neighbor, Mr. Sloan, lived to ruin my peace. He constantly complained and once even reported me for using a leaf blower too early. But nothing prepared me for the morning I found a pile of dirt ruining my prized rose garden—my livelihood as a florist. Fuming, I stormed over—only to learn Mr. Sloan had died of a heart attack the night before.
Moments later, his lawyer informed me I’d been named in his will. Sloan left me his entire property—on one condition: I had to care for an elderly woman named Rose, who would live there indefinitely.