They waited exactly four days after my father’s funeral to kick me out. I came home from school to find my belongings dumped unceremoniously on the driveway. My stepmother’s cold explanation: “This isn’t your home anymore.”
I spent that first night at my best friend’s house, too shocked to cry. When I finally called my mother, she didn’t sound surprised – just determined. “Pack your things,” she said. “We’re going home.”
Home. The word felt foreign after what had happened. But when we arrived with a locksmith and a lawyer, the truth came out: my mother had never actually signed over the house in the divorce. She’d kept paying the mortgage all these years to ensure I’d always have stability.
The confrontation was ugly. Sharon screamed about theft and injustice, but the paperwork didn’t lie. The police officers who responded actually seemed relieved to tell her there was nothing they could do.
Now, as I help my mother repaint what was always her house, I realize some people build their lives on sand. When the tide comes in, only what’s built on solid ground remains standing.
