Grief doesn’t always arrive like a storm. Sometimes, it seeps in quietly—through a late-night phone call, a sterile waiting room, and two police officers who can’t quite meet your eyes.
My name is Rachel. I’m nineteen. Last fall, my parents were killed in a tragic car accident. One moment, they were on their way to dinner. The next, I was sitting in a hospital hallway at 3 a.m., holding a paper cup of bitter coffee, wishing I could press rewind.
After the funeral, the house felt unbearably silent. I kept expecting to hear Mom humming in the kitchen or Dad calling from the garage. Instead, the quiet swallowed me whole. I spent most days in my room, moving only to feed the cat or heat up a frozen meal. Grief has a way of shrinking your world.
Then came the will reading.
I arrived in borrowed clothes that still smelled faintly of my mom’s perfume. Across from me sat Aunt Dina, my father’s estranged sister. She was polished, aloof, and detached—offering no tears, not even the pretense of grief.
The lawyer’s words cut through me: “According to the will, the house is left to Ms. Dina.”
I couldn’t believe it. My parents would never have left our home to someone who barely spoke to us. Dina, however, only smirked and leaned back, her confidence unshaken. “It’s my house now,” she said coldly.
Continue reading on next page…