The House That Was Always Mine
When Ellie lost her father, she expected grief—not betrayal. Kicked out of her childhood home by the woman who never wanted her, she made one desperate call. But what waited on the other end wasn’t pity—it was power. And by the next morning, everything had shifted in ways she never saw coming.
The Beginning of the End
When my mom died, I was ten.
My dad did everything he could to hold us together. He made French toast every Sunday, left little notes in my lunchbox, and cried when he thought I wasn’t watching. He was broken—shattered by grief—but he was still my dad.
Then Cheryl showed up when I was fourteen.
She wore perfume so strong it gave me headaches and smiled at me with lips that never reached her eyes. To my dad, she was warm, radiant, perfect. And sure, she played the part well—when he was around.
But I knew better.
Her kindness had conditions. And I never met a single one.
Still, I tried. For him. Because after Mom, he deserved happiness.
Then, five years later, he was gone too.
A sudden heart attack. No warning. No goodbye.
I was nineteen, fresh out of high school, still figuring out how to schedule my own dentist appointments—and now, I was completely alone. The funeral hadn’t even ended before Cheryl started acting like I was a guest in my own home.
She moved through the house like she owned it—because in her mind, she did. She threw out Dad’s old magazines, replaced our family photos with hers, and one day, I caught her scrubbing his name off the mailbox.
When she saw me watching, she didn’t even flinch.
“Eleanor,” she said, her voice sharp as ice. “You’re not exactly family anymore. It’s time to get out.”
I didn’t argue. What was the point?
So I packed a duffel bag—boots, jeans, a few shirts, my toothbrush. I grabbed my guitar. And as I walked past the coat rack where Dad’s scarf still hung, I didn’t dare touch it.
I couldn’t.
One Call Changes Everything
That night, I crashed on my best friend Katie’s couch.
“Of course you can stay here, Ellie,” she said, handing me a blanket. “My home is yours.”
I didn’t cry. I just lay there, staring at the ceiling fan, my hands clenched over my stomach like I was holding myself together.
But before I closed my eyes, I made one call—to my dad’s older sister, Janine.
She answered on the first ring.
I don’t remember everything I said. Just the way she gasped at the right moments, the way the line went silent when I told her Cheryl had kicked me out.
It was the kind of silence that meant she wasn’t just listening—she was planning.
Finally, she spoke.
“I’ll take care of it, darling,” she said. “Are you okay at Katie’s, or do I need to come get you?”
“I’m fine,” I whispered. “But… help me. Please.”
“Of course, Ellie. Go back tomorrow morning. Get the rest of your things. I’ll meet you there.”
The Morning Everything Changed
The next day, I pulled up to the house I’d lived in my entire life—the one with the chipped front steps and the lopsided birdfeeder Dad and I had painted together.
Except this time, the house looked different.
Five black SUVs were parked outside like we were in a crime movie. Two men in suits stood by the front door—one checking his watch, the other so still I thought he was a statue.
My heart pounded.
Did Cheryl call security to keep me out?
I stepped out of the car, shoulders tight, and rang the bell.
The door swung open—and there stood Cheryl, pale as a ghost, her lips pressed into a thin, fake smile.
“Oh! You’re here!” she said, her voice suddenly sweet as syrup. “I was just about to call you, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart? I almost laughed.
“What’s going on?” I asked. “I just came to get my things.”
Before she could answer, Janine appeared in the hallway, heels clicking, wearing a slate-gray suit that looked like it cost more than my car. She held a folder in one hand and a smile sharp enough to cut glass.
“Perfect timing,” she said. “Come in, both of you. We were just about to clear some things up.”
I followed them inside, Cheryl trailing behind me like a storm cloud.
In the living room, two lawyers sat at the table, flipping through papers. One of them looked up as we entered.
“This is ridiculous!” Cheryl snapped. “You can’t just—”
Janine raised a hand. “Sit down, Cheryl. And stop talking.”
Cheryl sat. Barely.
I hovered near the doorway, my pulse racing. “What’s happening?”
Janine turned to me, her face softening.
“Your father never put Cheryl’s name on the deed,” she said. “He placed this house—and all the land—into a trust. Your trust. He did it right before your eighteenth birthday. He just never told Cheryl.”
My breath caught. “The house… is mine?”
I remembered my eighteenth birthday—Dad smiling at me, nodding when I told him I was taking a gap year. He never said a word about the trust.
He thought he had more time.
“That’s impossible!” Cheryl hissed. “Thomas would never—”
One of the lawyers slid a folder toward her. “This is a certified copy of the trust, ma’am. You were permitted temporary residence, but now that the beneficiary has revoked permission, you no longer have a legal right to stay.”
“You can’t just kick me out!”
“You have one hour to collect your personal belongings,” the lawyer said calmly. “After that, anything left behind will be considered abandoned property.”
Cheryl’s face twisted. She looked at me, then at Janine, then at the security guard standing silently by the stairs.
“This isn’t over,” she spat.
But it was.
The Aftermath
Cheryl stormed upstairs, slamming doors, muttering under her breath.
I stood in the kitchen, gripping the counter, remembering Dad burning pancakes and laughing.
“They’re crispy, Ellie! Just add whipped cream!”
Forty-seven minutes later, Cheryl came back down, dragging two overstuffed suitcases. Her face was blotchy, her lips pressed tight—but her eyes were dry.
She stopped at the door, like she wanted to say something—maybe an insult, maybe an apology.
But she didn’t.
She just walked out, one of the black SUVs rolling behind her like a shadow.
A New Beginning
That night, I slept in my old room.
The walls still had pinholes from old posters, the air still smelled like lavender and dust.
I wandered the house barefoot, every creaking floorboard familiar. In Dad’s room, I hesitated—then opened his closet.
Plaid shirts. Worn hoodies. The tan jacket he wore every fall.
I buried my face in it.
It still smelled like him.
Later, I sat on my bedroom floor with my guitar, playing the song I’d written after the funeral.
It wasn’t perfect.
But the house wasn’t haunted anymore.
It was healing.
And it was mine.
