When my brother Paul kicked Grandma Eleanor out for not contributing financially, I took her in, driven by love and loyalty.

As she rebuilt her life and found unexpected success, Paul’s regret surfaced, but I wondered if it would be enough to mend our broken bonds.

“Rachel, I can’t keep doing this,” Paul said, slamming his cup on the table. “She’s costing too much.”

“Paul, she’s our grandmother. She raised us, remember?” I replied, trying to stay calm.

“That was then. Things are different now,” he insisted. “She doesn’t bring anything to the table anymore. She just sits there, painting and wasting time.”

“Those paintings mean something to her,” I said. “And they could mean something to us if we let them.”

Paul scoffed. “Sentimental nonsense. I need to think about the future, Rachel. We can’t afford dead weight.”

Weeks passed, and Paul’s demeanor only grew colder. Grandma Eleanor tried to hide the hurt, but I could see it in her eyes, the way she clutched her paintbrushes like lifelines.

One evening, Paul called me. “Rachel, it’s time she moves out. I can’t do this anymore.”

“Where will she go?” I asked, feeling my heart sink.

“She can stay with you,” he said bluntly. “You seem to care so much.”

I agreed, but the conversation left a bitter taste in my mouth. I prepared the spare room, knowing Grandma would need a space that felt like home.

When I broke the news to Eleanor, she smiled softly, though tears glistened in her eyes. “Thank you, Rachel. You’ve always had a kind heart.”

“Grandma, you don’t need to thank me. This is your home too,” I said, hugging her tightly.