My sister got the house. I got a chessboard. At first, I thought it was my father’s final insult — until I heard something strange rattling inside one of the pieces.
“Life is a chess game,” my father used to say. “You don’t win by shouting. You win by seeing three moves ahead.”
I used to roll my eyes when he said that. But that day I’d give anything to hear him say it one more time.
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I didn’t speak when he died in the bedroom where we played every Sunday. Didn’t speak when neighbors brought warm casseroles and colder condolences. Didn’t speak when my half-sister Lara arrived — tanned, smiling, wrapped in a coat that probably cost more than the funeral.
“Gosh,” she said to my mother, “it still smells like him in here.”
Of course, it did. His perfumed coat was still hanging by the door.
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Lara didn’t come to mourn. She came to collect.
We sat side by side waiting for the last will. Finally, the lawyer unfolded the envelope.
“For my daughter Lara, I leave the house and everything within it,” he read aloud. “The property cannot be sold while its current resident remains.”
Lara didn’t look at me. Just smiled.
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“And for my daughter Kate…”
The lawyer paused. I held my breath.
“I leave my chessboard and its pieces.”
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Lara let out a soft snort and tilted her head toward me.
“A house for me, and a hobby for you. Fitting, don’t you think?”
I didn’t answer. Just stood, picked up the chess set, and walked out. I could still hear her laughter behind me. Outside, I walked without a plan. The wind bit through my sleeves.
By the time I realized where I was going, my feet had already taken me to the old park. The chess tables were still there, half-sunken in stone and moss.
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I sat down. Opened the box. My fingers moved without thinking. Bishop. Knight. Pawn. King.
“You’re really doing this?”
The voice sliced through the silence. I didn’t need to turn around. Lara. She appeared beside me and dropped into the seat like it had always been hers.
For illustration purposes only | Source: Midjourney
“Still clinging to Daddy’s toys? You really are predictable.”
She reached out and moved a pawn without asking. I responded.
We started playing.
“You know,” she said, cocking her head, “he always thought this game taught character. But it’s just wood. Just symbols.”
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She moved again. “I got the house.”
I stayed quiet.
“You got a game.”
Pawn. Knight. Bishop.
“You always thought this meant something,” she continued. “But in the end, it’s just wood.”
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Her final move came fast. A snap of the wrist.
“Checkmate,” she declared, slamming the knight down with unnecessary flair.
Then — for the drama, or maybe just for cruelty — she stood and swept the board with her arm.
“No point in clinging to illusions.”
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The pieces scattered. Some bounced on the stone table. Others tumbled into the grass. One landed near my foot. I reached down. Picked it up. It was heavier than I remembered. I rolled it between my fingers.
Click.
What is that?
Not the sound of wood. Not hollow. I picked up another piece. Gently shook it. Rattle. My breath caught in my throat.
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There’s something inside!
I looked up. Lara was watching me. Our eyes locked. And in that split second, I was almost sure — she’d heard it too. But she tilted her head, as if bored, and let her gaze drift past me like I wasn’t even there.
“Come to dinner tonight,” she said casually. “Mother asked. Said we should honor him properly. As a family.”
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I blinked.
“Did she really?”
“Of course. It’s what he would’ve wanted. We should all be… civil.”
She turned and walked away before I could respond, heels clicking against the path like a ticking clock.
Did she just make that up? Or did she plan it?
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Knowing Lara, either answer could be true. She was clever. And invitations could be just as dangerous as threats.
That dinner wasn’t a gesture.
It was a move. She is playing with me now.
And I had no choice but to sit at the board.
For illustration purposes only | Source: Midjourney
***
A few hours later, Lara was already in the kitchen when I came downstairs — humming, stirring, plating food like she’d done it a thousand times.
She even wore an apron. The one she used to call “tragically domestic.”
“Evening,” she said brightly, opening the oven. “Hope you’re hungry. I made rosemary chicken. And there’s a vegan option for Mom.”
For illustration purposes only | Source: Midjourney
I blinked. Our mother looked up at Lara as if someone had replaced her overnight.
“You cooked?” she asked, brows raised.
Lara laughed sweetly.
“It’s not that hard. I followed a recipe. Even cut fresh parsley for garnish.”
Fresh parsley. Of course.
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I took my seat in silence. Across from the impostor who wore my sister’s face.
Throughout the meal, Lara kept the performance going — passing dishes with both hands, topping off water glasses, smiling like she hadn’t just mocked me in a park hours earlier.
She didn’t look at me. Not directly. Not until I stood and placed the chessboard on the hallway console. Just behind me. Just in view. Closed. Waiting.
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That was my move.
A pawn offered. I wanted to see if she’d flinch. She didn’t flinch. But her smile stretched a little too tight.
Our mother noticed.
“You’ve been very sweet today,” she said to Lara, her voice light but deliberate. “Unusually sweet.”
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“I’m trying to be better. We’re family, right?”
“Some bonds are stronger than others,” our mother said, cutting into her food. “Especially when they’re tested. When people choose to stay, to support.”
Her eyes didn’t leave me as she said it. I forced a smile.
“Is that what this is? Support?”
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“I just think,” she said, setting down her fork, “that your father… he finally saw who truly stood beside him. Who gave him peace.”
“Peace?” I asked, my voice tightening. “You mean silence. Compliance. He didn’t want peace — he wanted loyalty.”
“And you think that was you?”
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I looked at Lara. “I stayed. I bathed him. Fed him. Watched him fade.”
“And he left you a game,” Lara said, still smiling.
“Maybe that says more about him than me,” I said sharply.
Our, no, Lara’s mother leaned forward.
“He gave my daughter the house because she deserved it. She sacrificed more than you know. And maybe it’s time you stopped acting like the victim.”
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“I’m not acting. You’re just not used to seeing me speak.”
There was a pause — full, sharp. Then Lara laughed.
“Okay, let’s not ruin dinner. This is supposed to be nice.”
Her mother turned to me.
“You should start packing in the morning. Just so there are no… complications.”
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I stared at her. At both of them. At the fake peace, they tried to pass as family.
I picked up my plate. Quietly brought it to the sink. I didn’t say thank you. I didn’t say anything.
Just turned, walked upstairs, and locked my door behind me.
I knew one thing for certain. Dinner wasn’t over.
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***
The house held its breath. I was waiting.
Suddenly…
Somewhere in the darkness, I heard the soft creak of floorboards. A quiet click of a drawer. A velvet shuffle. Lara was crouched over the chessboard, the pieces already scattered, some opened. A paring knife beside her.
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One of the rooks cracked in half. A small velvet pouch in her hand, glinting with stolen pride.
“So,” I said calmly. “It wasn’t just wood after all.”
Lara spun around, startled, then narrowed her eyes.
“You knew.”
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I didn’t answer. She stood, straightening herself like a dancer on a stage.
“I solved it,” she said. “He left the real gift inside the game. And I found it.”
“You broke it open like a thief.”
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“He gave you the board, but he gave me the meaning. And now I have it.”
“Do you?”
From the shadows behind us, her mother emerged.
“She figured it out,” she said simply. “And you didn’t.”
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I looked at both of them. At the confidence in Lara’s eyes. At the satisfaction twisting in her mouth. They were already reaching for the stones.
Lara lifted the pouch and dropped a few of them onto her palm — bright, glassy things.
“Check and mate,” she whispered.
I looked at her.
“No. Zugzwang.”
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“What?”
“It’s a chess term. It means every move you make now only makes things worse.”
The mother frowned. “What are you talking about?”
I stepped closer to the table. Tapped one of the pieces Lara had cracked open.
“Glass. Colored, smooth. From a sewing kit, I’ve had since I was fifteen.”
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I looked straight at Lara.
“You found what I let you find.”
She went pale. “The stones you found? They’re fakes. Glass. From an old bead kit, I used to keep for sewing buttons.
“I swapped them out the morning after the funeral.”
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Lara’s face paled. “You’re lying.”
I reached into my coat and pulled out a slim envelope.
“Here’s the deposit confirmation from the bank. The real pouch is already locked away. Under my name. Safe. Untouchable.”
Lara stepped back as the paper burned her. Her mother said nothing.
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“And there’s something else,” I said, reaching into the lining of the chessboard case.
A folded piece of paper. Soft from time, but intact.
“My father’s real will. The one he hid, because he knew the official one would only start the game.”
I opened it and read aloud:
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“To my daughters…
If you’re reading this, it means the game has played out.
Lara, I loved you fiercely. I gave you much. You had freedom, opportunity, and every chance to show who you are. To your mother — I gave all I could. I hope it brought peace.
Kate — you stayed. You carried the weight. I gave you little but left you the map. That was my last game. My test.
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If you are honest, you may live together in peace. If not, everything belongs to Kate.
I gave you all the pieces of me. I needed to see who would protect the whole.”
I folded the letter. Silence hung between us like fog. I looked at Lara, then her mother.
“Checkmate.”
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If you enjoyed this story, read this one: My future MIL gave me a list of 10 rules to become the “perfect” wife for her son. I smiled, nodded… and decided to follow every one of them. Just not the way she expected.
My Neighbor Ruined My Christmas Yard With a Mud Path — Karma Took Its Revenge
My neighbor Sharon is the type of person who competes over everything, even Christmas lights. When her petty jealousy turned my festive yard into a muddy mess, she thought she’d won. But karma struck her with a surprising twist and gave her the spotlight she deserved.
You ever have that one neighbor who seems to thrive on being a pain in the rear? For me, that’s Sharon. I’m Evelyn — 35, mom to two mischievous cats, and a lover of low-key Christmas cheer. I live in a quiet neighborhood, the kind where most people wave when they pass by.
But Sharon? She doesn’t just wave. She sizes up your yard, your decorations, and probably your soul, thinking of ways to OUTDO you.
A woman decorating a Christmas tree | Source: Unsplash
Last year, the Homeowners’ Association (HOA) hosted a “Best Christmas Yard” contest. Honestly, I wasn’t even planning to enter, but Sharon made it impossible to ignore.
“Hey, Evelyn!” she called out one November morning, leaning over our shared fence. Her nails were perfectly manicured — bright red, as if she’d already decided she was Mrs. Claus. “Are you decorating this year? For the contest?”
“What contest?” I asked, genuinely clueless.
Her smirk widened. “Oh, the HOA is hosting this fun little competition. Best yard gets a plaque or something. I figured you’d want to know. Not that I need the competition.”
An arrogant woman standing behind a fence | Source: Midjourney
I rolled my eyes. “Wow, Sharon. Humble as always.”
“Humble?” she scoffed. “I prefer the term ‘professionally festive.’ Someone has to set the neighborhood standard.”
She laughed like she’d already won. I just shrugged.
“Thanks for the heads-up. I almost forgot about that,” I said.
Sharon went all in. Two days later, her yard looked like Christmas had exploded. Inflatable Santa? Check. Reindeer? Check. Thousands of twinkling lights synced to “Jingle Bell Rock”? Double-check. She even roped off sections for photo ops, charging five bucks per picture.
A yard flaunting stunning Christmas decor | Source: Midjourney
“Five-dollar Christmas memories!” Sharon announced to anyone within earshot. “Limited time offer!”
Me? I threw up a few string lights, hung an old wreath I dug out from the attic, and set out some candy canes. It wasn’t much, but the neighborhood kids loved it. They’d walk by, munching cookies or tugging on their parents’ sleeves, pointing at my yard like it was Santa’s little hideout.
That was all I needed.
The HOA announced the winner at the annual block party. I wasn’t even paying attention until I heard my name.
“And the Best Christmas Yard goes to… EVELYN!”
I blinked in disbelief. My yard? Seriously?
A stunned woman | Source: Midjourney
I went up to accept the certificate, feeling more awkward than proud. From the corner of my eye, I saw Sharon standing stiff as a nutcracker. Her lips were pursed so tight I thought they’d disappear.
“Congratulations,” she said when I passed her on my way back to my seat. Her tone? Sweet as vinegar, with an undertone that could curdle eggnog.
“Oh my,” she continued, her smile so forced it looked like it was held together with Christmas ornament wire, “I’m just THRILLED for you. Who would’ve thought… a few candy canes and some string lights could beat my PROFESSIONAL display?”
“Thanks, Sharon,” I replied, keeping my voice light.
She leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “I’m sure it was just a clerical error. These things happen.”
An annoyed woman | Source: Midjourney
The rest of the evening, she avoided me, but I caught her glaring a few times. Her fake smile was so rigid I was half-expecting it to crack like an icicle.
Honestly, I thought that’d be the end of it… just some harmless competition. I should’ve known better. Especially with Sharon.
Christmas morning, I packed up the car and headed to my mom’s. She wasn’t doing great health-wise, so I wanted to spend the holiday with her. When I came back two days later, my jaw hit the floor.
There was a muddy path leading from the sidewalk straight to my front door. My yard — my clean, festive yard — was a disaster zone. Mud covered everything. And right next to it, in giant letters, was the message:
“BEST YARD.”
A yard with a muddy track | Source: Midjourney
I stared at it, rage bubbling up inside me. Who else could’ve done this? It was classic Sharon — over-the-top, childish, and just plain mean.
“I should go confront her,” I muttered, then quickly backtracked. “No, no. Confronting Sharon is like voluntarily walking into the Grinch’s cave. With a welcome mat. And maybe a fruit basket.”
I grabbed a shovel and trash bags, my internal monologue running wild. “Confrontation? Pfft. She’d probably have surveillance cameras. Or worse… witnesses prepared with sworn testimonies about my ‘aggressive yard behavior’.”
A woman holding a shovel on a muddy track | Source: Midjourney
Muttering under my breath, I started scooping the sloppy mud. “Petty, immature… How does she even have time for this? Miss ‘I sync my Christmas lights to Broadway musical numbers’.”
I paused, my shovel mid-scoop. “If I go over there, she’ll play the victim. She’ll have tea. Probably Christmas-themed. With little gingerbread man coasters.”
Another scoop of mud. “Nope. Not worth it. She’d turn this into a three-act Christmas drama where I’m the villain.”
As I continued scooping, my frustration grew. “Best yard, huh? More like best mud sculpture. Congratulations, Sharon. You’ve truly OUTDONE yourself this time.”
A frustrated woman with her face covered in mud | Source: Midjourney
I grabbed another trash bag, still grumbling. And as I started scooping up more mud, karma decided to make a surprise appearance.
“Evelyn! WAIT!”
I looked up to see Sharon sprinting toward me, her face pale as snow.
“What do you want?” I asked, holding my shovel mid-air. “Come to offer more landscaping advice?”
“Please don’t throw the mud away!” she begged, her voice shrill and desperate. She looked like a deer caught in headlights — if that deer was wearing designer winter boots and had a manicure.
An anxious woman screaming | Source: Midjourney
I blinked. “Why would I keep mud? You think I’m building a mud castle here? Planning some avant-garde Christmas sculpture?”
She hesitated, wringing her hands. “I, uh… I lost something. My engagement ring. I think it might’ve fallen off when I was… uh…”
“When you were writing ‘BEST YARD’ in my lawn?” I finished for her, raising an eyebrow. “How convenient.”
Her face turned beet red. “Look, just… don’t throw it out, okay? I’ll clean it up myself!”
I crossed my arms, smirking. The power dynamics had suddenly shifted, and I was living for every second. “Oh no, Sharon. You wanted to make a mess? Fine. But I’m finishing the cleanup. If your ring’s in here, you’re welcome to dig for it. In the dumpster!”
A furious woman frowning | Source: Midjourney
Her eyes widened in pure horror. “Evelyn, please —”
“Better get started,” I interrupted, tossing another shovelful of mud into the trash bag. “I hear mud is great for exfoliation. Consider this your Christmas spa treatment.”
Sharon looked trapped, like a perfectly coiffed rat in a very expensive mousetrap.
An hour later after I was done, she ended up elbow-deep in garbage, sifting through mud in her designer boots.
“You find it yet?” I called, standing on the porch with a cup of coffee, enjoying the show like it was my personal holiday parade.
“Not. Helping,” she snapped, wiping mud from her face. Her perfectly highlighted hair now looked like a mud sculpture gone wrong.
A woman sifting through a garbage bag | Source: Midjourney
Neighbors started coming out of their houses, pretending to “take a walk” or “check the mail.” Soon, half the block was watching Sharon dig through trash bags like a raccoon… a very well-dressed, increasingly frustrated raccoon.
One guy across the street whispered to his wife, “Did you see her boots? That’s gotta be at least $400 ruined right there.”
“I’d be more worried about the coat,” his wife replied, stifling a laugh. “Those designer labels don’t exactly scream ‘mud-friendly’.”
Sharon overheard and shot them a look that could freeze Santa’s sleigh mid-flight.
An annoyed woman frowning | Source: Midjourney
An hour later, she let out a triumphant shriek that could’ve shattered glass. She held up the ring like she’d won an Olympic medal for Most Dramatic Mud Excavation.
“Found it!” she yelled.
I clapped slowly, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. “Congrats. Now about the rest of the mud…”
She shot me a death glare so intense it could’ve melted the North Pole. She shoved the ring into her pocket, and stomped back to her house. The sound of her squelching boots was music to my ears.
Close-up shot of a woman holding a diamond ring | Source: Midjourney
The next morning, I stepped outside with a cup of coffee, expecting to see Sharon’s inflatable Santa waving cheerfully like always. But her yard was… EMPTY. No twinkling lights, no music, not even a stray candy cane. Just an eerie, stripped-down lawn that looked like it was bracing itself for a mid-January thaw.
“Whoa,” muttered Greg, my neighbor from two doors down, as he shuffled past with his dog. “Sharon finally gave up?”
“Looks like it,” I said, pretending to study my shrubs while biting back a grin.
The neighborhood buzzed about it all day. Apparently, Sharon had packed everything up at the crack of dawn. Rumor was, she’d been too mortified to face anyone after her mud-wrestling performance in my yard. One neighbor swore she heard Sharon muttering something about how “the spotlight wasn’t worth it.”
An empty yard on a snowy day | Source: Midjourney
“More like the mud-light wasn’t worth it,” I mumbled to myself.
By afternoon, people were strolling by my yard to compliment my decorations again. “So simple, so sweet,” Mrs. Hargrove cooed. “You really deserved that win.”
“Effortless Christmas charm,” I replied with a wink. “Sometimes less is more.”
I just smiled and thanked them, my heart doing a little victory dance. Not because I’d won, but because I knew Sharon was probably inside her house, peeking through the blinds, stewing in her own embarrassment.
A cheerful woman smiling | Source: Midjourney
That night, as I watered my poinsettias, Sharon stepped out to check her mailbox. She glanced my way, and for a second, I thought she might wave or say something civil.
Instead, she turned on her heel and marched back inside, slamming the door behind her so hard I thought the Christmas wreaths might shake.
I chuckled, shaking my head. “Maybe next year, Sharon. Maybe next year!”
A furious woman standing at the doorway | Source: Midjourney
This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.
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