Losing my parents shattered my world, but it wasn’t until the will was read that I realized how truly alone I was. The house—my home—was left to Aunt Dina, a woman my parents barely tolerated. Her smirk said everything. She didn’t comfort me. She evicted me. Just like that, I was packing my life into suitcases, heartbroken and homeless.

I stood on the front steps, clinging to a peace lily and the last thread of hope, when a black limousine pulled up. Out stepped Uncle Mike—long-lost, sharp-dressed, and carrying more than sympathy. He’d seen Dina’s braggy post online and started digging. What he found? The will was forged. Every signature, a lie.

Moments later, cops arrived. Dina was smug until Mike presented hard evidence: a fake will, an unlicensed lawyer, traced handwriting. Her confidence crumbled, and in front of the house she stole, she was cuffed and taken away. I didn’t cheer—I just breathed for the first time in weeks. Justice had a strange, quiet peace.

Now the house is mine again. The couch is new, the kitchen smells like cinnamon, and the peace lily just bloomed. Uncle Mike visits, always bringing something odd and helpful. I still grieve, but I’m not lost anymore. I’m rebuilding—stronger, rooted, home. And that little plant by the window? It’s thriving. Just like me.