The old grandfather clock chimed as I traced Dad’s framed photo. A year since his burial, the pain felt fresh.
“Dad,” I whispered. “I miss you so much.”
Mom entered, eyes cold. “Katie, stop moping,” she snapped. After Dad’s death from cancer last year, the will left me the family home, 90%, while she and Tyler got pits of cash. Her fury at the lawyer’s office still haunted me.
I replied softly, “I’m remembering.”
She scoffed. “Fine—then dust while you’re at it. You’re 20 and can’t keep a house clean.”
I stayed silent. It was easier than fighting. That changed one rainy May day when Tyler, Gwen, and eight suitcases appeared at our door.
“Oh, they asked,” Mom said. “They can stay.”
My protest that it was my house fell on deaf ears. Two months of chaos followed—messy dishes, missing food, no help, no rent. Then Gwen announced her pregnancy, smugly adding, “We’ll stay longer.”
I demanded they leave. Tyler laughed. Mom insisted I “show compassion.” Yet they expected me to serve Gwen, even at 5:10 a.m., fetching a McMuffin—which Gwen rejected once cold. “Drive faster,” Mom scolded.
I was their errand girl. My birthday came and went; six cupcakes vanished—Gwen “ate for two.” They blamed my fridge. I locked myself in my room more often.
The breaking point: I cooked dinner after a long day. Warnering back to find Gwen devouring it, I exploded. Tyler and Mom defended her’ because “she’s pregnant!” They ordered me out.
I called Uncle Bob. He offered to buy the house. I agreed.
Next morning, I calmly announced I’d sold it and they had 48 hours to leave. They raged—Tyler cited Gwen’s pregnancy, Gwen played the family card. I replied, “Family doesn’t treat each other this way.”
They left, I stayed with a friend, blocked their petty texts, finalized the sale for \$2 million, and bought a peaceful cottage. Mom called me a “selfish monster.” I looked at my new home with the keys in hand, free at last.
Family isn’t blood—it’s respect. Walking away from toxic people is bravery.