Losing my parents shook my entire life, but the moment the will was read was when I really grasped how truly alone I had become.
I used to think grief would slam into me like a giant wave—fierce, noisy, all in one go. Instead, it seeped in slowly. A strange voicemail. A cold hospital waiting area. Two policemen who refused to look me in the eye.
My name is Elin. I’m 19, and last fall my parents were killed in a car accident. One minute they were on their way to eat out; the next I stood in an icy corridor at 3 a.m., clutching a cheap cup of vending-machine coffee, wishing desperately to turn back the clock.
After the funeral the house felt hollow and silent. I kept expecting Mom’s quiet humming from the kitchen or Dad’s voice drifting in from the garage. I barely stepped out of my room except to feed the cat or warm up frozen meals. Grief has this way of making everything smaller.
Then the will reading took place.
I arrived wearing borrowed black trousers and a blazer that still held a trace of my mom’s perfume. My hands shook nonstop, so I kept twisting the bottom of my shirt like it was an anchor.
Opposite me sat Aunt Laurel—my dad’s sister, even though I never heard him say a single kind word about her. She showed up in a tight red dress, as if she were attending a party rather than discussing her brother’s belongings. She shed no tears. She didn’t even pretend.
The lawyer cleared his throat. “Under the terms of the will, the house goes to Ms. Laurel.”
I stared. “Sorry—what did you say?”
Laurel gave a smug little smile. “He said it clearly.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” I replied, voice unsteady. “My parents would never leave it to her—she couldn’t stand my mom. She almost never visited us.”
The lawyer looked uncomfortable. “This is exactly what the document states. It appears genuine and properly executed.”
The room suddenly felt airless. “There must be an error somewhere.”
“No error,” Laurel said, settling back as though the place was already hers. “The house is mine now.”
I left the office feeling numb, running through every memory of my parents, searching for any clue how this could be real. I kept waiting for a phone call to say it was all a mistake. No one called.
Two days later she appeared at the door.
I opened it in pajamas and soft socks. She skipped any polite chat.
“You have twenty-four hours to pack and get out,” she said, arms folded tight. “I want everything clean before I take over.”
My stomach dropped. “Laurel, I don’t have anywhere to stay.”
She shrugged. “Not my responsibility.”
“I’m your niece.”
“Actually,” she said, stepping inside past me, “I’m your landlord now. And I want you gone.”
I tried reasoning with her. I offered to find work, cover costs, do whatever was needed. She rolled her eyes and sank onto the couch.
“Could you step aside? You’re in the way of the screen.”
So I began packing.
I didn’t sleep at all. I moved quietly from room to room, folding clothes into bags and padding picture frames with towels. Every corner carried memories: Dad showing me how to balance on a bike in the yard, Mom twirling with me across the kitchen floor, birthday celebrations with fresh cake and cinnamon drifting through the air.
Laurel stayed up watching old shows, crunching on chips, and tossing out occasional snide remarks.
“You always kept too much clutter.”
“I’m trying to go quickly,” I murmured, keeping my eyes down.
The next morning was overcast and muggy. I stood on the front steps holding two suitcases and my mom’s peace lily from the kitchen window. My eyes stung badly, but I wouldn’t cry—not where she could see.
I glanced back for one final look at the only home I’d ever had. The windows, the porch swing, the uneven path to the mailbox—they all seemed distant now, like echoes.
That’s when I noticed it.
A black limousine eased down the street and pulled up directly in front of the house.
I frowned. Laurel couldn’t possibly afford a limo—unless stealing from her dead brother brought unexpected bonuses.
I was about to drag my luggage past when the door opened.
“Elin?”
I went still.
A tall man in a neat gray suit stepped out. Dark hair combed smoothly, sharp features, the posture of someone used to authority and comfort. He straightened his tie and met my gaze.
“Uncle Mort? Is it actually you?”
I could hardly take it in.
He smiled gently. “You’ve grown so much. The last time I saw you, you were covering everything in glitter pens and cat drawings.”
I let out a shaky laugh. “And you gave me that fountain pen for Christmas when I was eleven. I was convinced it was a magic wand.”
He laughed quietly. “Not entirely wrong. Pens hold real power. This time I’ve brought something else entirely.”
I stared, still unsure if this was real. “Why are you here now?”
Uncle Mort showed me his phone. The screen displayed a photo of Laurel posing proudly in our doorway, oversized sunglasses and that leopard scarf she loved. The caption: New beginnings! Finally getting what belongs to me.
My throat closed up. “She really put that online?”
“I spotted it on Facebook last night,” he said, slipping the phone away. “Your dad would have been livid. So I started checking.”
Before I could speak, two police cars rounded the corner and parked along the curb. My eyes widened.
“What’s all this?”
Mort remained steady. “Stay near me. It’s going to be fine.”
The officers got out—one adjusting his belt, the other surveying the house like routine work.
“Good morning,” Mort said. “Thank you for coming.”
We approached the house together—me, Mort, and the two officers—like a calm, determined group. I clutched the peace lily tighter; its leaves quivered in the light wind.
Laurel opened the door just as we reached the porch. She wore an expensive-looking silk robe and held a mimosa as though it were ordinary.
Her expression soured. “Elin? What are you doing back here? You’re not allowed to—”
“Don’t,” Mort said calmly, lifting a hand. “Don’t say another word.”
He faced the officers. “May I proceed?”
One gave a nod.
Mort opened his briefcase and removed a thick file. “This,” he explained, opening it, “demonstrates that Ms. Laurel submitted a forged will. There was no original. The paper was produced after their passing, and the signature was lifted from a medical consent document.”
“What?” I whispered, struggling to process.
He went on. “The attorney who presented the will? Paid cash, no valid license. We have transaction records, expert handwriting comparison, and witness statements. Everything is documented.”
Laurel’s glass shook faintly. “This is ridiculous,” she snapped. “You have zero proof!”
“We have plenty,” Mort replied, his tone smooth yet unbreakable.
She seemed to collapse inward. Her lips parted, then closed; her gaze flicked desperately toward the officers.
One officer moved closer. “Ms. Laurel, you’ll need to come with us.”
Laurel faltered, “I… I have to contact someone—”
“That can wait until you’re at the station,” the officer answered, bringing out handcuffs.
“Wait—please, just a second,” she pleaded, but they continued.
They placed the cuffs on her right there on the porch, her drink splashing across her pink slippers.
I simply watched. No wave of victory. No surge of fury. Just… worn out. But the kind of tired that comes after finally releasing a long-held breath.
As the police cars pulled away, Uncle Mort let out a slow breath beside me.
“I never imagined she’d sink this low,” I said softly.
“She was jealous of your dad her whole life,” he replied. “Even as children. But this went beyond anything acceptable.”
I nodded, fingers lightly touching the peace lily’s pot.
“You’re not by yourself, Elin,” he said kindly. “You never really were. I wish I’d arrived sooner.”
Three months went by.
The matter reached court. My parents had never written a will—they hadn’t anticipated leaving so early. Without one, the law declared me the rightful owner. The house belonged to me. Laurel’s name was wiped from every record as though she had never appeared.
Her fake property listing vanished. The keys she had flaunted were quietly passed to me outside the courtroom.
Uncle Mort pursued a lawsuit against her for legal expenses, emotional harm, and fraud.
She didn’t merely lose the house.
She lost it all.
A neighbor mentioned she’s now renting a tiny place above a vape store on the outskirts. One of those dim, stuffy apartments with buzzing lights and no proper cooling. A long way from the luxurious kitchen she used to flaunt online.
And me?
I’m home.
It still sounds unreal when I say it. I sit in the living room where Mom and I built blanket forts. The couch wears a fresh cover, and cinnamon drifts through the air once more. I’ve begun planting flowers in the yard. Herbs line the windowsill—basil, lavender, rosemary.
The peace lily?
It flowered last week.
I stood watching the white blooms unfold slowly, gentle and persistent. Exactly like me.
Uncle Mort drops by occasionally with his unusual gifts. An antique chess set. A beautiful journal. Last Sunday he even repaired the dripping faucet in the bathroom.
“You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for, Elin,” he said, passing me a tool. “Your dad would be so proud.”
I smiled. “Thank you, Uncle Mort. For everything.”
He shrugged lightly. “That’s what uncles do.”
I miss my parents every single day. But I’m slowly learning to create something fresh from what’s left behind. Not only a house, but a true future.
And that peace lily remains by the window.