My name is Ian. I’m seventeen, and the house I live in doesn’t feel like home anymore. It used to—back when it was just my dad and me. Back when life was simple, steady, and full of love.
Now, every morning, I wake up to the sound of my stepdad humming in the hallway like he built these walls himself. My mom avoids my eyes like she’s afraid I’ll explode if she looks too long. Truth is, I don’t see either of them as family anymore. Not after what they did.
Two years ago, my dad died in a car accident. I still hear the police officer’s voice saying, “I’m sorry.” My body froze that night—I didn’t cry right away. I just stood there, hollow, waiting for the reality to hit. The only thing that kept me grounded was knowing Dad had left me something: a college fund. He wanted me to have a future, a safety net. That money was supposed to be locked away until I turned eighteen.
Mom handled the survivor benefits, which made sense. She used them for groceries, bills, school clothes—things we needed. But the inheritance? That was sacred. That was mine.
Then one Thursday evening, Mom dropped a bomb. “We’re moving,” she said, her smile stretched too wide. “A beautiful house outside of town. Bigger kitchen, more space. You’ll love it.”
I stared at her. My stepdad Ray is a substitute P.E. teacher who works when someone calls out. My mom’s a part-time receptionist at a dental office. They barely scraped by paying rent. Buying a house was impossible.
So I asked the obvious: “How are we affording this?”
Her smile faltered. She looked at Ray, who cleared his throat and walked out of the room without a word. She never answered.
Over the next week, I kept asking. Each time she brushed me off, until finally, one night while I was washing dishes, she snapped. “Fine,” she barked. “We used some of your father’s money. But it’s for all of us. For you, too.”
The soapy water stung my hands as I froze…
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