When my father passed away unexpectedly, I returned to the home I grew up in, seeking comfort. Instead, I found a shock waiting for me: the locks had been changed, and a note was taped to the door. My stepmother, Carla, had already taken control.
“You were never more than a guest,” the note read. “This house is mine now. Time to grow up.”
My belongings were stacked on the porch—including my mother’s cherished painting and even my childhood dog’s ashes. It felt like more than an eviction. It felt like I had been erased.
Just days earlier, I stood at my father’s funeral under gray skies, still processing his sudden death. Carla had barely shed a tear. Dressed immaculately, she played the composed widow. Back at the house, I tried to mourn in the only place that still felt like home, surrounded by memories—riding bikes with Dad, laughing over melted ice cream. But Carla’s attention had already turned to “arrangements.” I didn’t understand what she meant. Now I did.
She had changed the locks. Called the police. When I protested, the officer calmly said, “The property owner has asked you to leave.” I had no choice but to drive away, stunned and heartbroken.
That night, still reeling, I got a call from my father’s attorney.
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