I always imagined grief as a sudden wave—but for me, it came quietly: a stranger’s voicemail, a hospital waiting room, two averted policemen.
I’m Rachel, 19. Last fall, my parents died in a car crash. One moment they were on their way to dinner, the next I was in a cold hospital hallway at 3 a.m., holding a paper cup of vending-machine coffee, wishing time would rewind.
After the funeral, the house felt empty. I stayed in my room, only leaving to feed the cat and warm frozen meals. Life shrank.
Then came the will reading. Allaudida, my aunt, inherited the house. She wasn’t sad—she was smug. Though Dad never got along with her, the lawyer said the will was real. My hands shook. There had to be a mistake. There wasn’t.
Two days later, she barged in and ordered me out—told me I was her tenant and had to leave. Heartbroken, I packed while she lounged and mocked me. The next morning, I stood on the porch with two suitcases and my mom’s peace lily, unable to cry.
Then a limousine glided up. Uncle Mike—Dad’s brother—stepped out. He’d discovered that Aunt Dina had forged the will. Police arrived, arrested her, and she was taken away.
Three months later, the court confirmed no real will existed. The house legally belonged to me. Dina lost everything; Uncle Mike sued her for fraud. I’m back home now: the sofas covered, the kitchen smelling of cinnamon, fresh herbs and flowers blooming. The peace lily just blossomed again.
Uncle Mike stops by—he fixed the faucet, brought a chess set—and reminds me, “You’re tougher than you think.” I miss my parents every day, but I’m building a new future from the ashes. And that peace lily? It’s staying.