When my mom died, I was ten, and my dad—though heartbroken—did everything he could to love me through the loss. Years later, Cherry entered our lives, pretending to care but always keeping her kindness just out of my reach. When Dad died suddenly, I was left not only grieving but displaced, as Cherry tried to erase every trace of him and push me out of the only home I’d ever known.
But I wasn’t alone. One phone call to Aunt Jamines changed everything. She arrived not just with legal documents, but with strength, clarity, and protection. It turned out Dad had quietly placed the house in a trust under my name, planning for my future in the way he always had—with quiet devotion and foresight.
Cherry was forced to leave, and I stayed, surrounded by the echoes of my childhood. Slowly, with Aunt Jamines by my side and my guitar in hand, I started reclaiming not just the house, but myself. The pain didn’t vanish—but the silence in the house shifted. It wasn’t empty anymore. It was healing. And it was mine.
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