When my great-grandmother passed away, I inherited her house. It wasn’t just a piece of property to me — it was a place woven with family memories: summers spent chasing fireflies in the yard, the creaky hallway that scared us as kids, and the kitchen that always smelled like cinnamon bread.
A few years after I inherited it, my brother asked if he could live there and pay rent. He was starting a new chapter in his life, and I wanted to help. I agreed, but with one clear condition: I would need the house back when my daughter turned 18. It wasn’t negotiable — my plan was to give her a stable place to start adulthood, whether she wanted to live there or sell it. My brother understood and agreed at the time.
Fast-forward to now. My daughter is 17, just months away from adulthood, and I reminded my brother about the agreement. But instead of working with me, he started dodging my calls. Texts went unanswered. When I finally managed to bring it up in person, he brushed me off like it was nothing.
I gave him multiple formal notices, trying to handle it civilly. He ignored every one. Eventually, with no other choice, I filed for eviction. It broke my heart, but it was necessary. The day he got the official notice, he finally called — not to apologize, but to scream at me.
He accused me of being selfish. He said, “You’re throwing family out like some stranger.” I reminded him of the agreement he made years ago, the one he was now conveniently pretending didn’t exist. He shot back, “People change their minds. Families help each other. I thought you’d be better than this.”
The worst part? He tried to guilt-trip me by saying my daughter “doesn’t even need a house right now,” and that I was choosing her over him. But I am choosing her — I made a promise to my daughter long before this argument ever happened. And honestly, I made a promise to him, too — one he chose to ignore.
We’re barely speaking now. It’s painful, but I stand by my decision. This house was entrusted to me to protect, not to let it turn into a family battlefield.