A year after my mom passed away, I returned home to find my suitcases by the door and a stranger in my living room wearing my late mother’s robe. Her ex-boyfriend’s new fiancée, Vanessa, smirked at me and said it was time for me to leave.
I clenched my jaw. “Where’s Rick?”
Vanessa sipped her wine. “Running errands. He and I need this space now. You understand, right?”
“This is my house,” I said slowly. She laughed. “Oh, honey, Rick was being nice letting you stay here. It’s time you moved on.”
I inhaled sharply but kept calm. “Then I’ll wait.”
Rick returned, looking smug. “Guess she got the news,” he said. Vanessa chuckled. “And she’s taking it so well.”
The doorbell rang. “That’ll be the lawyer,” I said, standing.
Rick frowned. “What?”
Mr. Thompson, my mother’s attorney, stepped in, opening his briefcase. “Your mother’s will is clear. This house belongs solely to her daughter.”
A man reading documents on a couch | Source: Pexels
Rick’s face drained of color. “Wait, what?”
Vanessa turned to him, eyes narrowing. “You told me you owned this place.”
Rick stammered. “I-I thought—”
“You lied to me?” she shrieked, grabbing her purse. “I am so out of here!”
Rick scrambled after her. “Babe, wait—”
The door slammed.
Rick turned back to me, forcing a smile. “Kid, let’s be reasonable. I’ve lived here a year. That counts for something.”
Mr. Thompson adjusted his glasses. “It does. You’ve been unlawfully occupying this property. If you do not vacate, the owner can press charges for trespassing.”
Rick swallowed hard. “Pressing charges?” I mused. “That’s an option?”
A knock at the door. This time, Mr. Thompson answered it, revealing two uniformed police officers. “Sir,” one said to Rick, “You have 24 hours to vacate.”
Rick ran a hand through his hair. “Where do you expect me to go?”
I shrugged. “Not my problem.”
That night, I listened to the sounds of drawers opening, bags dragging. I thought I’d feel victory or relief. Instead, I felt nothing.
By morning, the house was silent. For the first time in a year, it was mine.
I placed my mother’s picture back on the mantle, running my fingers over the frame. “I did it, Mom.”
Some mistake kindness for weakness. But standing up for myself? That’s how I took my power back.
