When my dad died, I expected grief—not eviction. Cheryl, my stepmother, kicked me out two days after the funeral, cold as stone. She said I wasn’t “really family anymore.” I left without fighting, clutching my guitar and heartbreak.

That night, I called Aunt Janine. I didn’t cry, just explained. She didn’t ask questions—just said, “Go back in the morning. I’ll meet you there.” I didn’t know then that her words were a promise… or a warning.

The next day, five black SUVs lined the curb. Cheryl’s face turned white when she opened the door. Inside, Janine stood with lawyers and trust papers: “This house belongs to Ellie,” she declared. Cheryl sputtered—but lost everything in under an hour.

That night, I slept in my old room. I found Dad’s jacket, his scent still lingering. Aunt Janine and I baked Mom’s pecan pie, just like old times. The house felt like him again—warm, safe, and finally, mine.