A mobile billboard truck pulled up behind us. The electronic sign flashed a simple message: “This home now belongs to Olivia. Unauthorized occupants will be removed.”Carla opened the door before we could knock, her face twisted with rage.You spoiled little brat,” she spat. “You think you can just take everything?””Not everything,” I said calmly. “Just what’s mine. What Dad wanted me to have.”
“Mark would be disgusted by your behavior. After everything I did for him.”
“You can’t—”
“Oh, I can! And I will.” I handed her the court order. “One hour, Carla. Then these gentlemen will help you leave.”She stared at me, those perfectly manicured nails crumpling the paper. For the first time, I saw fear in her eyes.”Where am I supposed to go?”
I shrugged. “Not my problem. Time to grow up and move on, right?”
It took three days to clean the house after Carla left. Three days of opening windows, washing linens, and reclaiming spaces. She’d already started repainting, covering Dad’s blue living room with a sterile white.
On the fourth day, I tackled Dad’s office. It was the one room Carla hadn’t touched. She was probably waiting to clear it out all at once.In the bottom drawer of his desk, I found an envelope with my name written on it in Dad’s messy handwriting. Inside was a letter and a small silver key.”Liv, if you’re reading this, then it means I’m gone, and Carla has shown her true colors. I’m sorry you have to go through this, but I hope you remember what I always said… people will show you who they are. Believe them the first time. I love you forever… Dad.”My hands trembled as I searched the office, finally finding a small locked wooden box in the back of his closet. The key fit perfectly.Inside were dozens of photographs of Carla with another man… intimate and unmistakable. Some were dated just weeks before Dad’s death. There were receipts for hotel rooms, printed emails, and even a handwritten letter from the man ending their affair.My stomach twisted. Dad had known. He’d known she was cheating, and instead of confronting her, he quietly made sure I would be protected when he was gone.
I sat on the floor of his office, surrounded by evidence of Carla’s betrayal, and finally cried the tears I’d been holding back since the funeral.”I got your message, Dad,” I whispered. “Loud and clear.”Six months later, I sat on the porch swing Dad built when I was 12, watching the sunset. The house felt like home again. I repainted the living room blue, replanted Mom’s flower garden, and hung all the family photos Carla had taken down.
My phone pinged with a social media notification. Someone had tagged me in a post. It was a mutual friend from college who lived in Phoenix.
“Isn’t this your stepmom? She was just ranting at the coffee shop about her ‘ungrateful stepdaughter’ who ‘stole her house.’ Thought you’d get a laugh out of it.”Attached was a photo of Carla, looking significantly less polished, gesturing wildly in a café.I smiled and closed the app without responding.I looked out at the yard where Dad taught me to throw a baseball, where we built snowmen, had water balloon fights, and planted a tree when Mom died.
