After my dad passed, he left me our cherished family home. I was only 20, grieving, and unsure — so I let my mom stay, even though she only got a small inheritance. Then my brother Tyler and his pregnant wife Gwen showed up with suitcases, saying they’d “just stay a while.” Mom acted like it was her house to give. I was treated like a maid while they ate my food, left me their messes, and demanded everything — especially “because Gwen’s pregnant.”

I endured it all until Gwen ate the only meal I’d managed to cook after a long day. When I snapped, they turned on me. Tyler yelled, Mom called me selfish, and they tried to push me out of my own home. That night, I locked my door, called my Uncle Bob, and finally took back control. He offered to buy the house — and I said yes. The next day, I announced they had 48 hours to leave.

They screamed, cried, and guilt-tripped me — but it was done. I stayed with a friend until they moved out. For selling the house I inherited, I walked away with $2 million and a clean conscience. I bought a peaceful little cottage and blocked every message calling me a “monster.”

Because family isn’t who shares your last name — it’s who respects you. And standing up for myself was the best thing I ever did.