I chose to honor my father’s memory by holding on to the home he left me. When my family moved in without asking, I told myself it was only temporary. Instead, they took control and treated me like unpaid help. I endured it—right up until they tried to force me out of my own house. One phone call was all it took to change everything.
The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed softly as I traced my fingers over my dad’s framed photograph. A full year had passed since we laid him to rest, yet the pain still felt fresh.
“Dad,” I murmured, “I miss you so much.”
My mother walked in, giving me that familiar look—part sympathy, part bitterness. It had been her constant expression ever since the will was read.
“Katie, stop wallowing,” she snapped. “He’s gone. Crying won’t bring him back.”
Her harshness made me flinch. After Dad died from cancer last year, the lawyer revealed that he’d left me nearly everything—90 percent of his estate, including the hundred-year-old family home. Mom and my brother Tyler each received $10,000. I could still picture the fury on Mom’s face in the lawyer’s office when she heard it.
“I’m not wallowing,” I said quietly. “I’m remembering.”
