The house still smelled like him—cedar, coffee, and the cologne he always overused. It was the last trace of my dad after the accident that took him suddenly. I hadn’t left since.
Elizabeth, my 39-year-old stepmother—and once my 7th-grade English teacher—acted like the grieving widow, hosting guests and keeping composed. But I remembered the woman who mocked me in front of a classroom and handed back my book report with a note that read, “Not everything needs your opinion, sweetheart.”
After the funeral, I cleaned, cooked, and helped with her kids. She offered no thanks. A month later, she handed me an envelope—an itemized bill. She was charging me rent in my childhood home.
The next day, I handed her my own envelope. It wasn’t money—it was legal notice. My attorney walked in moments later to explain: my father had left the house solely to me, two years before his death.
Elizabeth was stunned. She threatened to fight it, but she had no legal ground—and she knew it. I gave her thirty days. She didn’t say goodbye.
After she left, the silence was healing. Grief settled gently as I sorted through Dad’s belongings. I found drawings, letters, even a post-it he’d left me once: “You’ll always be Dad’s girl.”
Then came the letter he’d written after marrying Elizabeth:
“Giving you this home… is the only thing I know for sure is right. Don’t let anyone take it from you.”
I cried—for the first time in weeks—not from sadness, but from feeling seen.
I let go of my city apartment. This was home now. To keep the house from feeling like a mausoleum, I adopted two puppies—Peanut and Butter.
Sometimes I sit on the porch at sunset with them by my side, and I hear echoes of laughter, humming, and childhood dreams.
Elizabeth once taught me to shrink myself. But in the end, I passed her final test—with top marks.
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