Losing both of my parents was the kind of heartbreak that doesn’t fade — it reshapes you. One week, I was a 19-year-old worrying about college deadlines. The next, I was standing in a sterile hospital hallway, clutching a cup of cold coffee, and hearing the words no one should ever hear: “You have no family left.”
Grief didn’t come crashing in all at once. It crept quietly — through the empty chairs, the half-used shampoo bottles, and the echo of voices that would never come back. I kept busy watering Mom’s peace lily, feeding our cat, pretending that maybe life hadn’t completely fallen apart.
But nothing prepared me for the will reading.
I showed up wearing Mom’s navy blazer, trying to look composed. Across the table sat Aunt Dina — my dad’s older sister — who barely visited when my parents were alive. She smiled like she already knew something I didn’t.
When the lawyer read the papers, his voice was flat: “According to your parents’ will, the estate and property go to Ms. Dina.”
I blinked. “That’s not possible.”
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