I never thought Mr. Sloan, my grumpy old neighbor, had a single kind bone in his body—especially not the kind that would leave me his house. After years of petty fights, ruined roses, and exchanged glares, I was stunned to find out he’d named me in his will. But there was a catch: to inherit the house, I had to care for a frail woman named Rose, someone I’d never met before. With my flower business struggling and no other real option, I agreed, thinking it would be simple. I had no idea I was walking into a life-changing truth.

At first, Rose seemed harmless—sweet, polite, endlessly needy. Requests for carefully sliced tomatoes and early-morning pill runs slowly chipped away at my patience. But when I discovered an old photo in the garage—Rose holding a baby, standing beside a young Mr. Sloan—I began to unravel a history far deeper than I expected. The back of the photo read: “Rose and my girl, August 1985.” My world tilted. I had grown up in foster care with no idea who my parents were. Could that baby in the photo… be me?