The hallway clock chimed as I touched Dad’s photo. A year had passed since his death, but the pain still felt fresh.
“Dad,” I whispered, “I miss you.”
Mom walked in with her usual coldness. Ever since Dad’s will left me 90% of everything—including the house—she’d treated me like the enemy.
“You’re 20. Clean something,” she snapped, ignoring that the house was mine.
One rainy day, my brother Tyler arrived unannounced with his wife, Gwen, and suitcases.
“We’re moving in!” he declared.
Mom backed them up. “It’s the family home,” she insisted.
But I owned it. Still, I stayed quiet—for a while.
Two months turned into hell. They didn’t pay rent, left messes, and Gwen treated me like a maid. When she announced her pregnancy, things got worse.
I became the errand girl. At 5 a.m., Mom woke me up for Gwen’s McMuffin. She took one bite, called it cold, and tossed it.
On my birthday, Gwen ate my cupcakes. “Blame the baby!” she said smugly.
When I bought a mini fridge, Mom let Gwen into my room anyway.
Then came the breaking point: Gwen ate my only dinner after a long workday.
“You’re a selfish witch!” Mom shouted when I protested.
“Get out!” Tyler added.
“This is my house!” I yelled back.
That night, I called Uncle Bob. He’d once offered to buy the house. Now, I said yes.
The next morning, I told them: “The house is sold. You have 48 hours.”
They begged, threatened, guilt-tripped. I moved in with a friend and blocked them all.
I sold the house for $2 million and bought a quiet cottage of my own.
My phone buzzed with a final text from Mom: “You made us homeless. You selfish monster.”
I blocked her number.
Family isn’t about blood—it’s about respect. And I chose to walk away from those who gave me none.