I Inherited My Dad’s House

When Dad died, the house became mine. The will was clear: I got the home, Mom and Tyler each got ten thousand. But Mom never accepted it. She roamed the rooms like a queen without a crown, insisting, “It’s still my house.” For a year, I bit my tongue—until I came home one day to find Tyler and Gwen moving in, Mom cheering them on.

They were impossible—mess everywhere, bills ignored, Gwen raiding my food and opening my mail. When she announced a pregnancy, Mom declared I should serve her. The final straw was Gwen eating the only meal I’d made all day. In my own kitchen, I was told to leave. That night, I locked my door and called Uncle Bob.

By morning, we were at the title office. I sold the house to him. Later, facing them, I said, “You have forty-eight hours. It’s Bob’s house now.” They laughed—until Bob arrived with the papers. They packed, Mom cried, Gwen whined, Tyler fumed. I didn’t argue. I made a sandwich on the back steps where Dad and I once shelled peas. For the first time, the house felt mine.

Two weeks later, I moved into a crooked cottage under a maple tree. Peace replaced exhaustion. I hang Dad’s photo in the kitchen and cook his mushroom pasta, watching the steam curl into nothing before eating every bite. Mom’s texts blaming me go unanswered. I haven’t forgiven them—but I’ve found peace, and for now, that’s enough.