The Summer I Took It All Back
That summer, my whole world crumbled. The money I’d worked years to save? Gone. My Dad? Gone. And just when I needed love and support more than ever… my stepmother looked me dead in the eye and gave me a price tag for staying in the only place I had left.
That was the summer I almost disappeared.
I stood in the middle of my tiny rented apartment, surrounded by empty shelves, half-packed boxes, and my dreams crumbling at my feet. For ten long years, I’d worked without weekends — saving every cent, eating instant noodles, saying no to vacations — all for one dream: my own bookstore café.
And then my landlord hiked the rent so high, I couldn’t afford to stay. My dream slipped through my fingers.
But the worst blow hadn’t hit yet.
A few days later, my father died.
Raymond.
I still called him that in my mind. He wasn’t just “Dad.” He was my whole world after Mom passed. I remembered how he’d sit at the edge of my bed when I cried into my pillow.
“Hannah, look at me. You’re not alone. I’m here.”
He always said it like a promise. And he kept it, every time. He brought me books, sat with me as we read together, whispered into my hair,
“You’re my little star, Hannah. You’re all I have.”
I believed him. I needed to believe him. But when Lydia showed up… things started to change.
“Raymond, I want us to be a family,” she said with a smile. “I’ll be like a second mom to Hannah.”
I looked her in the eyes and made myself believe her.
And her daughter, Chloe, peeked out from behind her legs and chirped, “I’ll be your sister! I promise!”
Dad pulled us all into a hug, so full of hope. He wanted this to work.
But it didn’t.
After they got married, Lydia slowly took over everything. She walked around the house like she owned it — keys jingling in her pocket, eyes scanning every corner like she was taking inventory. Chloe followed her everywhere, questioning everything I loved.
“Hannah, why do you need so many books? You’ll never make money from those,” she said once, wrinkling her nose.
When I left for college, Dad would call late at night, whispering so Lydia wouldn’t hear.
“You’ll always be my girl, Hannah,” he’d say. “They’re not bad people… but I feel like a guest in my own home.”
“Dad…” I whispered, trying not to cry.
And now, years later, I was back in that same house. With nothing left. No apartment. No dream café. No Dad. Just his “family” — and me.
I told myself I’d just stay for a few days. Just to say goodbye.
But Lydia had different plans.
The funeral was hot and heavy, like the air itself was mourning. I stood there in my black dress, sweat sticking it to my back, listening to person after person talk about what a kind man Raymond was.
Lydia dabbed her eyes with a crisp tissue. Chloe sobbed gently against her shoulder. The whole thing felt… staged. I could almost picture Dad standing under the big oak tree nearby, rolling his eyes.
Later, we all gathered in the living room. Mr. Whitaker, the lawyer, opened a thick folder and cleared his throat.
“Raymond left clear instructions. The house goes to Hannah.”
My heart jumped. For a second, I felt like he was still holding me, keeping his promise.
But then Mr. Whitaker flipped to another page and frowned.
“However… there’s an addendum. The deed will only transfer once the good judgment of Lydia determines the conditions have been met.”
“What?” I blurted out.
“It means Lydia decides the terms,” he explained. “You’ll have to agree and complete them before the house is officially yours. I’ll supervise the process.”
I stared at him. This had to be a mistake. Dad would never…
Lydia leaned toward him, sugary sweet. “Of course. We’ll have a family meeting and decide what’s fair.”
Whitaker nodded, packed his papers, and left.
The second the door closed, Lydia dropped the act. Her voice sharpened like a knife.
“Alright, Hannah. Here’s how this is going to go…”
She was done pretending.
“If you want the house, you’ll buy Chloe an apartment. One that she deserves.”
“An apartment?! With what money?!”
She smiled, cold and fake. “Don’t play dumb. You’ve been saving for years, haven’t you?”
“I’ve worked myself to the bone to save for a café,” I said. “Something of my own.”
Chloe chimed in, voice syrupy. “Don’t be selfish. You’re the oldest. You should help the family.”
Family. The word turned to poison on my tongue.
“If I don’t?” I asked.
Lydia crossed her arms. “Then we all live here. And trust me, we’ll make your life miserable.”
I had no place else to go. Rent was too high. My savings were locked in the café plan. I swallowed my pride.
“I’ll stay,” I said quietly. “We’re family. We’ll… work it out.”
Biggest mistake I ever made.
Life there became torture.
Every morning, Chloe blasted music, laughing about “the spinster in the back room.” Lydia only cooked for two. When I asked for toast, she smiled over her shoulder and said, “There’s some burnt crust if you’re hungry.”
But the final straw came fast.
I came home after a long day of job hunting — and found my room emptied. My clothes were thrown in the yard. It was raining. My books were soaked. My dad’s photos ruined. Chloe watched from the top of the stairs, chewing gum.
“Oops,” she said. “We needed the space. You didn’t mind, right?”
I didn’t even speak. I walked past her, soaking wet, and sat on the floor with an old address book. I flipped to the back.
There it was. The number I hadn’t called in years.
Cynthia.
Lydia’s mother.
The one person she hated more than she hated me.
The best part? She had every right to live in that house too.
I dialed the number.
“Cynthia? It’s Hannah. Raymond’s daughter. I think we can help each other.”
The next morning, I woke up to shrieking.
“Mom! What the hell are you doing?!”
I ran to the kitchen. There was Cynthia — slippers on, robe tied tight, sitting like a queen at the kitchen table. Smoke curled from a tray of burning herbs.
“Good morning to you too, baby girl,” she said, without looking up.
Lydia stood there, hair in curlers, eyes wild. Chloe was hiding behind her.
“Mom, this STINKS! You’re going to burn the place down!”
“I’m cleansing the house,” Cynthia said calmly. “Raymond deserves peace.”
“This isn’t your house!”
I leaned against the doorframe. “Actually,” I said, stretching, “I invited her. She’s family.”
Cynthia grinned. “Still family. And I’ve got every right to be here.”
“You can’t be serious,” Lydia snapped.
“Oh, I’m very serious,” Cynthia replied. Then she dropped the bomb.
“I have the original will. The one Raymond gave me — because he didn’t trust you.”
Lydia’s mouth dropped open.
“He knew you’d twist things,” Cynthia continued. “He begged me to keep it safe.”
She pulled out the creased envelope and waved it like a flag.
“You want to go to court? Be my guest. I’ll tell them everything. Like how you pushed that new will under his nose when he could barely hold a pen.”
Chloe whined, “Mama, what about us? Where are we supposed to go?”
Cynthia sipped her tea.
“Your dad’s place upstate still has a roof, doesn’t it? You always bragged about it. Plenty of room for your little family bonding sessions.”
Lydia looked ready to explode. I just smiled.
“You always said we should stick together,” I said. “So… stick.”
Cynthia laughed. “Pack your bags, Lydia.”
By sunset, the house was quiet.
Boxes gone. Screaming gone.
Just me and Cynthia, sipping tea in the kitchen.
She raised her mug. “To Raymond. And to girls who don’t let the witches win.”
I laughed, the first real laugh in weeks. “To family.”
She reached across the table. “Now you can chase that dream of yours, sweetheart. I’ll watch the house. Make it a home again.”
I looked out the window and smiled. The yard still looked like Dad’s. Now, it would stay that way — safe, peaceful.
And I could finally open my bookstore café.
Dad would be proud. I knew it in my heart.
