After Dad died, I stayed at the house to cook and clean, while my sister Farah claimed she “couldn’t bear to sleep there.” A week later, she moved in fully—rearranged everything, boxed up Dad’s things, then changed the locks on me.
I checked the will: the house was left to both of us, fifty-fifty. Yet she even tried selling it without telling me. When I confronted her, she broke down—admitting she wasn’t honoring Dad, just trying to control her grief.
In the end, she gave me a key back, restored some of Dad’s belongings, and we agreed to rent the house out together. I learned grief makes people possessive—but healing means choosing generosity.
