Grief makes people do strange things. For my stepmother Cheryl, it made her kick me out of my own home two days after my father’s funeral. What she didn’t know? That very act would trigger a chain of events leaving her homeless instead.
The whole drive to Katie’s house that night, I kept remembering how Dad would squeeze my shoulder when I cried. “Ellie-girl,” he’d say, “nothing’s so bad it can’t be fixed.” But how do you fix being orphaned at nineteen?
When Aunt Janine arrived the next morning with a small army of lawyers and security personnel, it felt like something out of a movie. Cheryl’s face when she realized the house had been in my name all along? Priceless.
“You have one hour to remove your belongings,” the lawyer told her, his voice devoid of emotion. I watched from the doorway as Cheryl – who’d always carried herself like royalty – scrambled to pack her designer clothes with shaking hands.
After she left, I walked through the empty rooms, touching familiar surfaces like I was relearning their language. The scratch on the banister from when I’d dragged my bike inside during a storm. The faint pencil marks on the doorframe charting my growth through elementary school.
In Dad’s closet, I found his old flannel shirt still hanging exactly where he’d left it. When I pressed it to my face, I could almost pretend he was just at work and would be home soon.
That night, Janine stayed over. We ate Chinese food from the carton at the kitchen counter, just like we used to when I was little and Mom would work late. Neither of us mentioned the obvious empty space where Dad should have been.
“Your father loved you more than anything,” Janine said suddenly, stabbing at her lo mein. “He just wanted you to be safe.”
I nodded, unable to speak around the lump in my throat. Safe. The word felt heavy in my hands. Because that’s what Dad had given me – not just a house, but a place where I could always come home.
