Losing my parents changed everything. I knew that from the moment I got the call. But it wasn’t until the will was read that I truly understood how alone I really was.
People always say grief hits you like a wave — loud, crushing, sudden. That wasn’t how it felt for me. For me, grief came in pieces. A voicemail from a stranger using my full name.
A hospital waiting room that smelled like disinfectant and sadness. Two police officers standing in front of me at 3 a.m., their eyes full of pity but refusing to meet mine.
My name is Rachel. I’m 19 years old. And last fall, my entire world ended when my parents died in a car crash.
One minute, they were driving to dinner, arguing lightly over which dessert to order. The next minute, I was standing in a freezing hallway, holding a paper cup of vending machine coffee that tasted like metal, wishing more than anything that I could rewind time.
After the funeral, the house felt wrong. Too quiet. Too empty.
I kept waiting to hear my mom humming while she cooked or my dad yelling from the garage, asking where he left his tools. But the sounds never came. I stayed in my room most days, only leaving to feed the cat or heat up frozen meals I barely tasted.
Grief shrinks your world without asking permission.
Then came the will reading.
I showed up wearing borrowed black slacks and a blazer that still smelled like my mom’s perfume. That smell nearly broke me. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking, so I twisted the hem of my shirt like it was the only thing keeping me afloat.
Across the table sat Aunt Dina. Technically, she was my dad’s sister. But in all my life, I’d never heard him say a single kind word about her.
She wore a tight red dress, like she was headed to a party instead of a meeting about her brother’s death. Her makeup was perfect. Her expression? Calm. Almost bored.
The lawyer cleared his throat and said, “According to the will, the house will be passed on to Ms. Dina.”
I blinked, certain I’d heard him wrong.
“I’m sorry… what?”
Dina smiled. Not a sad smile. Not a polite one. It was sharp. Proud.
“You heard him.”
“That’s not possible,” I said, my voice trembling. “My parents would never— She hated my mom. She barely even spoke to us.”
The lawyer shifted in his chair.
“This is what’s documented. The will appears valid and properly signed.”
The room felt like it was closing in.
“There has to be a mistake,” I whispered.
“There’s no mistake,” Dina said, leaning back like she already owned everything. “It’s my house now.”
I left the office numb. My head replayed every memory of my parents, trying to understand how they could have left me with nothing. I kept hoping someone would call and say, Oops, our bad. No one ever did.
Two days later, Dina showed up.
I opened the front door wearing pajamas and fuzzy socks. She didn’t even say hello.
“You’ve got one day to pack up and get out,” she said, arms crossed. “I want the place clean before I move in.”
My heart dropped.
“Dina, I don’t have anywhere else to go.”
She shrugged.
“Not my problem.”
“I’m your niece.”
She stepped past me, looking around the house like she was inspecting furniture.
“Correction. I’m your landlord. And I want you out.”
I begged. I told her I could get a job, help with bills, sleep on the couch — anything.
She rolled her eyes and sat down.
“Can you move? You’re blocking the TV.”
So I packed.
I didn’t sleep at all that night. I moved slowly through the house, folding clothes, wrapping picture frames in towels, touching walls like I was saying goodbye.
Every corner held a memory. Dad teaching me to ride my bike. Mom spinning me around the kitchen. Birthday cakes. Cinnamon in the air.
Dina stayed on the couch all night, watching reruns and eating chips.
“You always did have too much stuff,” she muttered.
“I’m packing as fast as I can,” I whispered, afraid I might scream if I said more.
The next morning was hot and gray. I stood on the front steps with two suitcases and my mom’s peace lily — the plant she kept by the kitchen window. My eyes burned, but I refused to cry in front of Dina.
I turned back for one last look at the house. The porch swing. The windows. The cracked walkway.
Then I saw it.
A black limousine rolled up and stopped right in front of the house.
I frowned. Dina didn’t have limo money. Not unless stealing from dead relatives paid better than I thought.
I was about to walk away when the door opened.
“Rachel?”
I froze.
A tall man stepped out, wearing a gray suit and a calm expression.
“Uncle Mike?” I gasped. “Is that really you?”
He smiled.
“You’ve grown. Last time I saw you, you were obsessed with glitter pens.”
I laughed despite myself.
“And you gave me a fountain pen and I thought it was a magic wand.”
He chuckled.
“Pens can be powerful. And today, I brought a different kind of magic.”
Before I could ask more, he showed me his phone. On the screen was a photo of Dina standing in my doorway, smug and posing.
The caption read: New beginnings! So proud to finally have what was meant for me.
“She posted that?” I whispered.
“I saw it last night,” Uncle Mike said. “Your dad would’ve lost his mind. So I started digging.”
Suddenly, police cars pulled up.
“What’s happening?” I asked.
“Stay close,” he said. “It’ll be alright.”
We walked to the house together. Dina opened the door wearing a silk robe and holding a mimosa.
“What is this?” she snapped.
Uncle Mike raised a hand.
“Don’t.”
He opened his briefcase.
“This is proof you forged the will. The signature was traced. The lawyer was fake. We have everything.”
Dina’s face drained of color.
One officer said, “Ms. Dina, you’re coming with us.”
She was handcuffed right there on the porch.
I didn’t feel joy. I felt relief.
Three months later, the court ruled the house was mine. Dina lost everything.
Now I’m home.
The peace lily bloomed last week.
And for the first time in a long time… so did I.