After my parents divorced, I chose to stay with my dad.
Not because I didn’t love my mom—but she was moving out of state, and I couldn’t bear to leave behind my friends, school, and childhood home. Both of them understood.
When Dad married Sharon, I genuinely tried to make it work. She didn’t. Her kindness was fake, her words always laced with passive-aggression. Her adult children, Mark and Lisa, were just as bad—treating our home like a hotel, while treating me like a nuisance.
But Dad always stood up for me. He was the shield between me and the chaos. As long as he was around, I could endure it.
Then he passed away suddenly.
Everything happened so fast. After the funeral, I stayed the night at my best friend’s place to breathe. The next morning, I came home… to find all my belongings tossed out on the porch.
Boxes. Clothes. Even the photo of Dad and me fishing. All thrown out like garbage.
The front door was locked. Sharon opened it with a smug smile and said, “This house is for family.” Then she slammed the door in my face. Her kids stood behind her, grinning.
I was heartbroken—and homeless.
Thankfully, our neighbor, Mrs. Jenkins, saw everything and offered me her couch. That night, I sat curled up, feeling lost. I finally picked up my phone and called Mom.
Even though she hadn’t been at the funeral, she didn’t hesitate. She drove through the night.
When she arrived, she told me the truth.
Their divorce had been messier than I ever knew—she had cheated, and Dad never forgave her. That’s why she hadn’t come to the funeral. But after the divorce, she secretly paid off the entire mortgage, and the house was put in her name. Dad kept it to give me one day—but legally, Sharon never owned it.
She had proof: the deed.
That weekend, we came back.
A locksmith changed the locks. Movers packed Sharon’s things and neatly placed them on the lawn.
When they returned, chaos erupted. Sharon screamed, her kids shouted and cried, but my mom calmly showed them the deed and told them they had no claim. Police were called. In the end, Sharon and her children had to leave.
Peace returned.
That night, Mom and I sat quietly in the house. She told me she’d transfer the deed to my name when I turned 18, which was only weeks away. For the first time in days, I felt safe. Loved. Grounded.
I hugged her, no longer stuck in the past. I had my home—and my future—back.
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