Cheryl waited exactly 48 hours after burying my father to drop her mask. “You need to go,” she told me, gesturing to the door of the home I’d lived in since birth. The woman who’d never smiled at me unless Dad was watching now held my childhood hostage.
I left with nothing but essentials, too numb to fight. But Aunt Janine? She fought like a lioness.
The next day, I returned to find our quiet street transformed. A small army of lawyers and security personnel filled the house, presenting Cheryl with paperwork that turned her smug expression to ash. The house wasn’t hers—Dad had ensured that. Every wall, every creaky floorboard belonged to me.
As Cheryl packed under supervision, I wandered through rooms suddenly foreign yet familiar. Dad’s plaid shirts still hung in the closet, smelling faintly of his cedar cologne. In the kitchen, Aunt Janine and I attempted Mom’s pecan pie recipe, filling the air with cinnamon and memories instead of tension.
That night, playing guitar in my old bedroom, I understood Dad’s final gift wasn’t just four walls—it was proof he’d loved me enough to protect me, even from the woman he’d married.
