A few days after my father’s passing, I went back to the house where I grew up, only to discover that the locks had been changed and a nasty note had been pinned to the door. The lengths my stepmother would go to in order to achieve her goals broke my heart. She wished she had never touched that lock, though, since my father had a different idea.
As they lowered my father’s casket into the earth, I watched from the cemetery. Something was taken with it as the finality of it struck me. Since Mom passed away, my dad, Mark, has been my pillar of support. In an instant, he was gone. a stroke at age 58. Not a warning. No farewell.
Carla, my stepmother, said flatly as she adjusted her high-end sunglasses, “We should get back to the house.” Her flawlessly applied makeup was untarnished by a single tear. “People will be arriving soon.”
I gave a numb nod. I considered myself a grownup at 25. I believed I was prepared for anything. However, I wasn’t prepared for this. I went around the house where I grew up as Carla oversaw the influx of guests.
Dad taught me how to ride a bike when I was seven years old, and every bend had memories. He got me a telescope for Christmas. After Mom passed away, we had ice cream and worked out math problems at the kitchen table.
Carla exclaimed abruptly, “He wouldn’t want all this moping,” as I stood in Dad’s study, stroking the book spines. “Life goes on, Olivia.”
She was wearing a white couture dress, all pearls, and not a hair out of place as I looked at her. “It’s been three hours since we buried him.”
“So…?”
In her signature tight smile, she squeezed her lips together. “I’m merely being realistic. Something you’ve never been able to do well.”
I said, “I need some time here,” and turned my back on her. “Just a few days to sort through his things.”
“Fine,” she responded, pausing. “Enjoy the weekend. However, we must first talk about some arrangements.
“Arrangements?”
However, she had already left, her heels clicking on the hardwood flooring.
I muttered, “I miss you so much, Dad,” to the empty room. “I don’t know how to do this without you.”
***
I drove back to my flat three days later to check my mail and get new clothes. My mind was cleared by the distance. Carla and I might be able to work things out. I’d try for Dad’s sake.
I knew something was up the moment I pulled into the driveway on Monday morning when I got back. The front door lock was not compatible with my key.
“What the hell?” I tried again, mumbling.
I saw the manila envelope attached to the door at that point. It bore my name, written in Carla’s exact handwriting. There was only one piece of paper inside:
“Olivia,
I currently own this house. You were only ever a visitor.
The locks have been replaced. You won’t be moving in with my kids.
It’s time to mature and move on.
Carla.
My mother’s painting, the only one she finished before cancer claimed her life, and the ceramic urn with the ashes of my childhood dog were on the porch with my baggage.
As anger grew inside my chest, hot tears streamed down my cheeks. It was the door I banged on.
“Carla! Now open this door!”
The front window’s curtain moved. Her face was briefly visible to me before she vanished.
“You can’t do this!” I yelled. “This is my home too!”
A police cruiser arrived behind me as I continued to bang on the door. Calm yet firm, the officer emerged.
“We have a report of a disturbance, Ma’am. I will have to request that you vacate the premises.
I felt sick to my stomach. Stunned, I turned to him. “This is my father’s house.”
“Madam, The property owner has asked you to leave, and I can see why you’re unhappy. We’ll have to take you away if you don’t.”
After carefully balancing the urn, I loaded my mom’s painting and my suitcases into my car. I noticed Carla gazing through the window with that tight smile on her face as I started to back away.
“This isn’t over,” I shouted, turning my knuckles white as I held onto the steering wheel. “Not by a long shot.”
I sat in my small apartment that night, surrounded by the stack of things Carla had decided were worth gifting me. I only had some clothes and a few souvenirs to show for my fifteen years at the residence.
My phone rang. It was Mr. Abernathy, Dad’s attorney.
“Olivia? I have been attempting to contact you. We must talk about your father’s will.
My eyes were wiped. “Is it possible to wait? I’ve been having a really bad day.
He stated, “It’s about the house,” “Has Carla contacted you?”
My heart skipped a beat. “She kicked me out today and changed the locks. said that the house was now hers.
A long pause ensued. “I believe you ought to visit my office tomorrow morning, Olivia. Your father wanted you to be aware of something.
As Mr. Abernathy pushed a document across his desk the following day, I sat across from him.
Six months ago, your father made changes to his will. The house was placed in a trust by him. For you.
I gazed at him. “What does that mean?”
It indicates that you are the rightful owner of the house. Not Carla. She has no authority to expel you or change the locks.”
I was unable to comprehend the words. “But…why wouldn’t he tell her?”
Mr. Abernathy took off his spectacles. “Olivia, your father was a wise guy. And he was deeply in love with you. He was concerned about your safety.
Something came to mind: a few months ago, Dad took me out to brunch. When he told me that he had “updated” his will, he had been very serious. At the time, I hadn’t given it any thought.
“So what do I do now?”
Abernathy grinned. “It depends. What are your thoughts on reprimanding your stepmother?
I straightened my posture. “I’m listening.”
***
I was silent for three weeks. Carla thought she had won, so I let her. After settling in, she most likely redecorated the rooms and removed all traces of Dad and me.
Then, in order to properly claim the house from the trust, Mr. Abernathy filed the necessary paperwork.
The legal documents were delivered to Carla at 9 a.m. on a Tuesday. At 9:15 a.m., my phone rang.
“HOW DARE YOU…?” Through the speaker, her voice sounded high-pitched.
Without saying anything, I ended the call and blocked her number.
Of course, she hired a lawyer. stated his dad “must have changed his mind and that the trust wasn’t valid.” However, Mr. Abernathy had everything organized, including witnesses, notarized documents, and a clear explanation of Dad’s intentions.
After three weeks of court battles, the judge decided in my favor and gave Carla 30 days to go.
However, she disregarded the decision.
“What now?” Mr. Abernathy, I inquired.
He said, “Now we get creative,” with a sparkle in his eye that I had never noticed before. “Your father would have appreciated that.”
I brought a court order, a moving firm, and a locksmith to the house on day thirty-one. I also received an additional surprise because I am my father’s daughter.
Behind us, a mobile billboard truck arrived. A straightforward message flashed on the electronic sign: “Olivia now owns this house. We will remove occupants who are not permitted.
Before we could knock, Carla, her face contorted with anger, opened the door.
She spit out, “You spoiled little brat,” “You think you can just take everything?”
Calmly, “Not everything,” I said. “Just what I own. what my father want for me.
“Mark would find your actions repulsive. after all that I done for him.”
“I don’t think so. In any case, you have an hour to gather your personal items. The rest remains.
“You can’t—”
“Yes, I am able to! And I will. I gave the court order to her. Carla, give me an hour. These gentlemen will then assist you in departing.
Her flawlessly manicured nails crumpled the paper as she gazed at me. I noticed terror in her eyes for the first time.
“Where am I supposed to go?”
I gave a shrug. “It’s not my issue. Isn’t it time to mature and move on?
After Carla left, cleaning the house took three days. Three days of recovering places, cleaning linens, and opening windows. She had already begun redecorating, applying a sterile white paint job to Dad’s blue living room.
I took up Dad’s workplace on day four. Carla hadn’t been in that room yet. Most likely, she was waiting to get it all out at once.
I discovered an envelope with my name scrawled in Dad’s sloppy handwriting in the bottom drawer of his desk. There was a little silver key and a letter inside.
“If you’re reading this, Liv, it means Carla has come clean and I’m gone. Although I’m sad you must endure this, I hope you never forget what I’ve always said: people will reveal themselves to you. The first time, believe them. I will always adore you, Dad.
Searching the office with shaking hands, I eventually located a small, lockable wooden box at the back of his closet. The key was a perfect fit.
Numerous pictures of Carla with another man were inside; they were clear and intimate. A few of them had dated only a few weeks prior to Dad’s passing. Hotel room receipts, printed emails, and even a handwritten letter from the man who ended their romance were all present.
My stomach turned over. Dad was aware. Knowing that she was unfaithful, he discreetly ensured my safety while he was away rather than confronting her.
Surrounded by proof of Carla’s treachery, I sat on his office floor and at last shed the tears I had been suppressing since the funeral.
Whispering, “I got your message, Dad,” “Loud and clear.”
***
I watched the sunset six months later while perched on the porch swing my father had constructed when I was twelve. Once more, the house felt like home. I hung all the family pictures Carla had taken down, replanted Mom’s flower garden, and painted the living room blue again.
I received a social media notification on my phone. I had been tagged in a post. It was a Phoenix-based mutual buddy from college.
This is your stepmother, right? At the coffee shop, she was merely venting about her “ungrateful stepdaughter” who “stole her house.” I thought it might make you laugh.
A picture of Carla, appearing much less put together and making crazy gestures in a café, was included.
Without replying, I closed the app with a smile.
I gazed out into the yard where, after Mom passed away, we planted a tree, made snowmen, threw water balloon fights, and learned how to throw a baseball from Dad.
I responded, “You were right, Dad,” to the night air. “People do show you who they are.”
Karma is humorous since it doesn’t require your assistance. It operates flawlessly on its own timetable. However, if you’re lucky, you might be able to watch it unfold from the front row.
Sometimes, if your dad was smart enough, he would make sure you were in charge of everything rather than just watching!
Another story: I have multiple videotapes that contain my late wife’s laughing and voice. It was intended for the eighteenth birthday of our daughter. However, the box of tapes was gone when I went to look for it, and my new wife’s response devastated me.
Although this work has been fictionalized for artistic reasons, it is based on actual individuals and events. To preserve privacy and improve the story, names, characters, and specifics have been altered. Any likeness to real people—living or dead—or real events is entirely accidental and not the author’s intention.
The publisher and author disclaim all liability for any misunderstanding and offer no guarantees regarding the veracity of events or character portrayals. This story is presented “as is,” and the opinions stated are those of the characters and do not represent the publisher’s or author’s.
