This didn’t start tonight. It started years ago. There were four of us: me, my mom, my dad, and Brittany, my mother’s first daughter, five years older, ten times more loved. If Brittany sneezed, Mom grabbed tissues and applauded. If I sneezed, she told me to do it quietly. Dad was gone most of the time, an overworked hospital doctor. When he was home, he smelled like antiseptic and coffee. He’d pat my shoulder, tell me I was a good kid, then pass out in the armchair. At least he noticed I existed.
When I met Hannah’s father, I mistook attention for love. I was 19. A year later, I was pregnant. Two years after that, he was gone. I remember sitting with a positive test in one hand and a nursing school application in the other, wondering how I was supposed to do both. Turns out, you just do. You work, you sleep in four-hour increments, and you learn that crying in the break room counts as self-care.
Three years ago, Dad retired. He wanted to make up for lost years. He showed up every week with takeout and stories. Hannah adored him. Mom didn’t like it. Then he got sick. It came fast and didn’t leave. Mom called one night, her voice trembling. “He needs help, Elena. You’re a nurse.” So Hannah and I moved in. I told myself it was temporary.
Those two years were the only time that house felt like a home. Dad was kind, grateful. I ran the place like a small hospital: charts, pills, meals, order. Mom floated around, acting like Florence Nightingale, except her uniform was wine and denial. When Brittany visited with her family, Mom lit up like the Fourth of July. The moment they left, the lights went out again.
Three weeks ago, Dad passed away. The funeral flowers hadn’t even wilted when the house started to change. Grief does strange things. My mom redecorated. Three days after the funeral, she was already moving furniture, humming, calling it “fresh energy.” She started with Dad’s room, painted it pale yellow, moved out his books. “It’ll make a perfect space for when Brittany and the kids visit,” she said, smiling. Within a week, it looked like a showroom. New bunk beds, toys, framed photos of Brittany’s kids on the dresser. Not one of Dad.
One night, I overheard her whispering to Brittany in the kitchen. “Rent’s outrageous these days. It just makes sense for you to live here full-time. Besides, Elena probably won’t stay much longer. She was only here for your father.” I remember standing there, my tea suddenly tasting like metal. It wasn’t even a month since the funeral, and already I was being erased. When I confronted her, she smiled like I was being dramatic. “You said you were just here to help your father. He’s gone. Now you have your own life. It’s time to move on.”
A few days later, Jonathan Wells, Dad’s lawyer, called. “Just some paperwork to finalize,” he said. I drove to his office. Instead of insurance forms, he handed me a folder. “Your father placed the house in a living trust,” he explained. “He wanted to make sure it stayed with you and Hannah.”
“What do you mean, ‘stayed with me’?”
“It’s yours,” he said simply. “He transferred it before his death. Your mother isn’t listed anywhere on the deed.”
The words didn’t register right away. When they did, all I could think was how fast everything had shifted, from eulogies to eviction. I didn’t tell anyone. Not yet. How do you walk into a house full of laughter and say, “Actually, all of this is mine”? I thought I’d wait for the right time. But five days later, she changed the locks.
I didn’t sleep after that. By sunrise, the adrenaline had turned into rage with a plan. I made two calls: one to the hospital to take a few days off, the other to Jonathan Wells. “She changed the locks,” I told him.
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