I honored my dad’s memory by keeping the house he left me. When my family moved in uninvited, I thought it was temporary. They took over and treated me like their personal maid. I endured it until they tried to push me out of my own home. I made just one phone call that changed everything.The old grandfather clock in the hallway chimed as I ran my fingers across Dad’s framed photo. A whole year had passed since we buried him, but the ache still felt like it happened yesterday.

“Dad,” I whispered, “I miss you so much.”Mom walked in, glancing at me with that look — half pity and half resentment. It had become her signature expression since the will reading.”Katie, stop moping around. He’s gone, and crying won’t bring him back!”I flinched at her coldness. After Dad died of cancer last year, the lawyer revealed that my father left me 90 percent of everything, including our century-old family home. Mom and my brother Tyler each got $10,000. The memory of Mom’s face contorting with rage at the lawyer’s office still haunted me.She snorted and walked toward the kitchen. “Well, remember while dusting those shelves. You’re 20 and still don’t know how to keep a place clean. This house is a mess.”