I lost my parents overnight. But I never expected my own aunt to swoop in and steal everything they left behind — until karma arrived wearing a gray suit and driving a black limousine.
Grief didn’t hit me like some Hollywood breakdown. It came in pieces. A voicemail. Two cops avoiding eye contact. A hospital hallway that smelled like bleach. One moment, I was 19 and planning college breaks. The next, I was an orphan, clutching bad coffee at 3 a.m. and wishing life came with an “undo” button.
The house grew painfully silent after the funeral. I kept waiting to hear my mom’s humming, my dad’s heavy footsteps in the garage. But the silence swallowed it all. It was just me. And the cat.
Then came the will reading — the moment that shattered what little stability I had left.
I walked into the lawyer’s office, wearing my mom’s old blazer. My hands trembled so badly I could barely sit still. Across from me sat Aunt Dina — my dad’s bitter sister, who had barely acknowledged our existence while my parents were alive. She wore a tight red dress like she was on her way to some cocktail party instead of sitting in a room full of grief.
The lawyer cleared his throat. “According to the will, the house goes to Ms. Dina.”
I thought I misheard. My head spun.
“That’s impossible,” I whispered. “They would never leave it to her.”
Dina’s grin could’ve cut glass. “You heard him, sweetheart.”
I stared at the lawyer, but he just shifted in his seat. “The will appears valid.”
And just like that, my childhood home was hers.
Two days later, she showed up with her signature fake sympathy and ice-cold demands.
“You have 24 hours to move out. I want the house cleaned before I move in.”
“But I have nowhere to go.”
“That’s not my problem,” she smirked. “Correction: I’m your landlord now.”
I packed in silence while she lounged on the couch, watching reality TV like she hadn’t just ripped my world apart.
The next morning, I stood on the porch with two suitcases and my mother’s dying peace lily. I was homeless. Alone. Numb.Read More Below
