On the day we buried my father, grief had barely settled when Cheryl, my stepmother, erased his name from the mailbox, stripped our photos from the walls, and told me coldly I was no longer family. With only my guitar, a few clothes, and Dad’s jacket, I left the home my great-grandfather built. That night, I found refuge on a friend’s couch, but a call to Aunt Janine changed everything.
The next morning, I returned to see black SUVs and lawyers at the door. Cheryl, shaken, tried to explain, but the truth emerged—Dad had transferred the house to me before he died. She had no claim. By noon, she was gone. I stood in the quiet, the house no longer hers but a living legacy of my father’s love and foresight.
