After my parents split, I stayed with my dad, not because I didn’t love my mom, but because she was moving out of state, and I didn’t want to leave my school, friends, or my room. My dad understood.
When he married Sharon, I tried to make it work, but she barely tolerated me. Her smiles felt fake, and her tone always stung. Her kids, Mark and Lisa, were the same—arrogant and dismissive.
But Dad always had my back. He stood up to them, and that made it bearable. Then, he died suddenly, and I was left in shock. After the funeral, I didn’t want to go back to the house, so I stayed with my friend, Maddy.
The next day, I came home to find my stuff packed on the lawn. Sharon had locked me out and told me to leave. My dad’s house was now hers, she said. I was heartbroken and homeless, and Sharon was cold, threatening to call the police if I didn’t leave.
Mrs. Jenkins, our neighbor, offered me a place to stay. Later, I called my mom, who drove all night to get me. She revealed a shocking truth: she’d paid off the house after their divorce and had the deed to prove it. Sharon had no claim to the house.
The weekend came, and Mom had the locks changed, and Sharon’s things packed up. When Sharon showed up, furious, Mom calmly showed her the deed. The cops were called, and Sharon and her kids were forced to leave.
After they were gone, Mom promised the house would be in my name when I turned 18. For the first time, I felt safe and could finally grieve my dad in peace.
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