Losing my parents changed everything, but it wasn’t until the will was read that I truly felt alone. I expected grief to hit like a wave, but it crept in quietly—a stranger’s voicemail, a cold hospital hallway, two cops avoiding my gaze. At 19, my world shattered overnight, leaving me grasping for normal in an empty house that no longer felt like home.

When Aunt Dina claimed the house, shock froze me. She, my father’s estranged sister, showed no sorrow—only smug control. The lawyer confirmed the will was “valid,” though it felt like a cruel joke. She kicked me out with no mercy, turning the place I grew up in into her playground, leaving me homeless and heartbroken in my pajamas.

Then Uncle Mike arrived, armed with proof that Dina had forged the will. Police arrested her on the spot. I felt no triumph—only exhaustion, relief, and the slow dawning of justice. Three months later, the court ruled the house mine, wiping Dina’s name away. Her high life crumbled while I finally found my place again.

Now, I’m home. The air smells like cinnamon, the peace lily blooms by the window, and life grows anew. Uncle Mike visits, reminding me I’m stronger than I think. I still miss my parents, but I’m building a future from the ashes—one stubborn, quiet petal at a time.