The hallway clock chimed as I touched Dad’s photo. A year had passed since we buried him, but the pain still felt fresh. Mom, bitter after the will revealed Dad left me 90% of his estate, barely spoke to me with kindness.
One rainy day, my brother Tyler and his wife Gwen showed up with suitcases. “We’re moving in,” he said. Mom supported it, despite the house legally being mine. Gwen was soon pregnant and used it as an excuse for everything — stealing food, making demands, and treating me like a maid. Any protest was met with, “She’s pregnant!”
They refused to pay rent, help with chores, or respect my space. My birthday passed without a word. When Gwen ate the only meal I had time to make after a long day, and then cried when I confronted her, I broke. They all turned on me, saying Dad would be ashamed.
That night, I called Uncle Bob. He offered to buy the house. I agreed — but on the condition that everyone was evicted. The next morning, I told them: they had 48 hours to leave. They were shocked. “But we’re family,” Gwen said. “Family doesn’t treat each other like this,” I replied.
I sold the house for $2 million, bought a peaceful cottage, and cut ties for good. Family isn’t just blood — it’s respect. And sometimes, walking away is the only way to find peace.