That summer, I nearly lost everything.
In my tiny rented apartment, surrounded by empty shelves and boxes, I realized that after a decade of work—no weekends, every penny saved—I was finally on the brink of opening my own bookstore café. But then my landlord raised the rent beyond reach.
Just days later, my dad died. He’d always been more than “Dad” to me—the only family after Mom passed—whispering, “You’re my little star, all I have.”
Then Lydia came—and Chloe. Dad married Lydia, whose promises of family soon felt hollow as she took control of his life—and the home. He even confided to me, “They’re good people, but… I feel like a guest in my own house.”
After Dad’s funeral, the attorney announced Dad left the house to me—if Lydia judged me worthy. And she did: I had to buy Chloe an apartment or live with them forever—and uncomfortably.
What followed was a nightmare: they tormented me until they stripped my room during a storm, destroying my books and Dad’s photos.
But then I called Cynthia—Lydia’s mother—who had just as much right to the house. She arrived the next morning, burning sage and defending Dad’s memory. Confronted, Lydia stormed out with Chloe, sent to her father’s old property upstate.
After the dust settled, Cynthia and I shared coffee. “To Raymond, and strong girls who don’t lose,” she toasted. With her help, I can finally focus on my dream. And for the first time in weeks, I truly felt at home—just as Dad would’ve wanted.