Belinda handed me an eviction notice at my grandmother's wake, then tried to claim Gran promised her the house

I’m Jess, 28, and I inherited my late grandmother’s house at 12 Smith Street, Footscray, about six months ago. Gran passed after a long illness, and the place is all I have left of her—two bedrooms, a tiny garden with her roses, and a mortgage I can just afford on my admin salary. I live alone, no roommates, no Airbnb, no parties. I keep to myself, work from home two days a week, and the loudest thing in my life is my kettle whistling.

Belinda, 62, lives at 16 Smith Street. She’s been the self-appointed street warden since before I was born, apparently. I barely knew her until the wake.

At Gran’s funeral, I was still raw. The service was small, just family and a few old neighbours. I’d stepped outside to get some air, and Belinda marched up to me in the car park, holding a manila envelope. She announced, loud enough for half the mourners to hear, that I was being evicted by VCAT for operating an illegal short-term rental and disturbing the peace. She said she had evidence: photos of “guests” coming and going, noise complaints logged with council. I stood there in my black dress, Gran’s ashes still warm in the urn inside, and felt the ground tilt.

My aunt pulled me aside afterwards. “Jess, just sell. You can’t afford a legal fight, and that woman is relentless.” She meant well, but the thought of selling Gran’s house made my chest tight. Gran left it to me because she knew I’d love it like she did. I told my aunt no. I’d fight.

I found Tom through a community legal centre. He’s a solicitor in his forties, calm and patient, with a stack of files on his desk that made me feel like just another case. But he listened. When I told him I’d never rented a room, let alone run an Airbnb, he raised an eyebrow. “Let’s look at her evidence,” he said.

Turns out Belinda’s photos of “guests” were taken at 14 Smith Street—the house two doors down from me. The tenants there had been running a loud, rotating guesthouse for months. Belinda had been trying to evict them, but she’d mixed up the addresses, or maybe she just decided I was an easier target because I was young and grieving. The noise complaints were all logged against 14 Smith Street, not 12. Tom showed me the council records.

I thought that would be the end of it. But Belinda doubled down.

She filed a new affidavit claiming my grandmother had promised her, in writing, that the house would never be used as a residence. She produced a handwritten note—undated, unsigned—that supposedly said “12 Smith Street will remain empty in perpetuity.” Gran never wrote that. I’d know her handwriting anywhere; she had a loopy, old-fashioned script, and this note was blocky and stiff. Tom said it looked manufactured, but it was enough to keep the case alive.

The hearing was at the small claims division of VCAT, a cramped room with fluorescent lights and a magistrate who looked like she’d seen it all. Belinda sat across the aisle in a floral blouse, clutching her folder. Her lawyer read out the affidavit with a straight face. Then it was my turn.

Tom handed over the title deed, the council noise logs, and a comparison of Gran’s handwriting with the note. I also produced a photo of Gran’s rose garden, taken from my front window—you could see the street number on the fence. The magistrate took one look at the evidence, then at Belinda.

“Mrs. Dawson,” she said, “this application appears to be based on a case of mistaken identity. The noise complaints and photographs relate to 14 Smith Street, not 12. The handwritten note is unsubstantiated. The applicant has failed to demonstrate any basis for eviction. Case dismissed with costs.”

Belinda’s face went the colour of old concrete. She started to say something, but her lawyer put a hand on her arm. I just sat there, hands shaking, and felt something loosen in my chest.

I walked out of that courthouse with a piece of paper saying I could stay. The costs award wasn’t much—a few hundred dollars—but it was enough. Gran’s house is still mine.

I don’t know what Belinda’s problem is, really. Maybe she’s lonely, maybe she’s got nothing else to do. But I’m not selling, and I’m not leaving. How do you deal with a neighbour who just won’t stop, even when you’ve already won?