Everything changed when I lost my parents, but I didn’t know how alone I was until I read the will.
I always imagined that grief would suddenly hit me like a wave, loud and forceful. However, it crept in on me. An unidentified voicemail. A clean medical waiting area. Two police officers avoided looking at me.
I’m Rachel. When my parents perished in a car accident last October, my entire world crumbled. I’m 19 years old. After they left for dinner one minute, I found myself in a chilly hallway at three in the morning, holding a paper cup of coffee from a vending machine, and hoping I could go back in time.
It was too quiet in the house after the funeral. I kept thinking that Dad would be calling from the garage or Mom would be humming in the kitchen. Except to microwave prepackaged meals and feed the cat, I hardly left my room. Grief makes the world seem smaller.
The reading of the will followed.
I arrived wearing a rented black slack and a blazer that still had my mother’s perfume on it. My hands continued to shake, so I knotted my shirt hem like it was a life raft.
Aunt Dina sat across from me. Although I had never heard my dad mention her favorably, she was actually his sister. Her tight red dress gave the impression that she was going to a cocktail party rather than a court hearing over the inheritance of her deceased brother. She didn’t cry—not even to pretend.
The attorney cleared his throat. “According to the will, the house will be passed on to Ms. Dina.”
I blinking. “I’m sorry, what?”
As if she had just eaten the canary, Dina grinned. “You heard him.”
I trembled when I answered, “That’s not possible,” She detested my mother, but my parents would never ” She hardly talked to us.
This lawyer shifted uneasily. “This is the documented situation. The signed will seems to be legitimate.
The air in the room seemed to have been drawn out. “There has to be a mistake.”
“There’s no mistake,” Dina remarked, reclining as though she already claimed the space. “It’s my house now.”
I was numb as I left the office, reliving all of my parents’ memories and attempting to understand how this could have occurred. It was a clerical error, and I kept hoping someone would contact me to explain. No one did.
She knocked after two days had passed.
Wearing jammies and fluffy socks, I opened the front door. Small talk didn’t even occur to her.
She crossed her arms and remarked, “You have one day to pack up and get out.” “I want the place cleaned up before I move in.”
I felt my heart sink. “Dina, I don’t have anywhere else to go.”
She gave a shoulder shrug. “Not my problem.”
“I’m your niece.”
“Correction,” she replied, moving past me as if she were the floor’s owner. “I am your landlord. And I want you to leave.”
I made an effort to argue. I promised her I could help with the expenses, get a job, or anything else. She simply plopped down on the couch and rolled her eyes.
“Are you able to relocate? You’re obstructing television.
I packed, then.
That night, I didn’t sleep at all. folded items into luggage and wrapped portrait frames in towels as they made their unhurried way through the house. I had memories of every part of that place, including the smell of cinnamon in the air, birthday celebrations with handmade cake, Mom dancing with me in the kitchen, and Dad teaching me how to ride my bike in the backyard.
Throughout the night, Dina ate chips, watched reruns, and occasionally threw passive-aggressive remarks over her shoulder.
“You always did have too much stuff.”
I murmured, “I’m packing as fast as I can,” since I didn’t trust myself to look at her.
It was humid and dreary the following morning. With two luggage and a wilting peace flower my mother had kept in the kitchen window, I stood on the front steps. Despite my eyes burning, I refrained from crying—at least not in front of her.
I went back to look at the only house I had ever known one last time. Now everything seemed ghostly, including the porch swing, the windows, and even the cracked road that led to the mailbox.
I saw it at that point.
The street was swept by a black limousine that looked like it was from a movie. Just in front of the home, it came to a stop.
My brow went down. Dina most certainly didn’t have limo money, unless there were benefits to coning your deceased brother.
As I dragged my things down the driveway and walked by it, the door cracked open.
“Rachel?”
I stopped.
A tall man emerged wearing a gray suit. He exuded wealth and good manners with his well-groomed dark hair, prominent cheekbones, and stance. He straightened his tie and gave me a direct gaze.
Uncle Mike? “Is that you?”
I was astounded by my sight.
His smile softened somewhat. “You’ve matured, youngster. You were still doodling cats on everything with glitter markers when I last saw you.
I couldn’t resist laughing despite my perplexity. “And I was about eleven years old when you handed me a fountain pen for Christmas. I believed it to be a wand.
He laughs. “Very close. Pens have some power. I also brought a new kind of magic this time.
Still uncertain whether this was a strange dream, I gazed at him. “What are you doing here?”
Mike’s phone was raised. There was a picture on the TV that made my stomach turn. Dina was standing smugly in our front doorway, sporting that hideous leopard-print scarf and huge sunglasses that she felt gave her a “glam” appearance.
It was captioned: Fresh starts! Having what was meant for me at last makes me very proud.
I felt my chest constrict. “She shared that? Really?”
Mike put the phone back in his pocket and added, “I saw the Facebook post last night.” “If your dad had witnessed that, he would have lost it. I therefore began to dig.
Two police cruisers rolled up to the curb and rounded the corner before I could react. My gaze expanded.
“What… what is this?”
Mike remained unflinching. Simply remain near. It will be all right.
As they emerged, one police adjusted his belt while the other looked about the house as if he had seen it a hundred times.
With a “Morning,” Mike said hello. “Thanks for coming.”
Mike, I, and two policemen marched toward the house like a strange justice procession. My hands tightened around the peace lily. The wind made the petals quiver.
As we got to the porch, Dina opened the door. Wearing a silk robe that appeared too costly for someone who claimed to be impoverished, she carried a mimosa as though it were a regular part of her outfit.
Her face contorted. Rachel? What have you got here? You can’t just—”
“Don’t,” Mike gently responded, holding up a hand. “Just don’t finish that sentence.”
Then he looked at the officers. “May I?”
They both nodded.
Mike opened his briefcase and took out a big folder from inside. “This,” he declared, opening it, “is evidence that Ms. Dina filed a falsified will.” The first one didn’t exist. The signature was taken from a medical consent form, and we have proof that the document was prepared after the death of the signer.
“What?” Breathing, I could hardly keep up.
He kept going. “The attorney who read the will? paid with cash. No authorization. We have kept tabs on everything. Witness accounts, handwriting analysis, and bank statements. Everything is present.
Dina sloshed her drink a little. “This is ridiculous,” she said angrily. “You can’t prove anything!”
“Oh, but we already have,” Mike responded, his velvet-voiced voice steely.
I had never witnessed someone deflate so quickly. Her gaze flashed toward the cops as if seeking an escape, and her mouth opened and closed.
One of the officers remarked, “Ms. Dina, we need you to come with us.”
As she stumbled, Dina said, “I… I need to call someone—”
“You can do that from the police station,” the officer responded, removing shackles.
But they didn’t. “Wait—wait, hold on,” she yelled.
There on the porch, shackled, she poured her drink all over her pink slippers.
I did nothing but stand. seeing her writhe. I was not feeling victorious. I didn’t get mad. I felt… worn out. But a healthy amount of fatigue. similar to the moment you finally release your breath after holding it for too long.
Uncle Mike stood next to me and sighed deeply as they drove away.
I muttered, “I can’t believe she did that,”
“She was always jealous of your dad,” he explained. even in our early years. But this? Every line was crossed by this.
I slowly nodded while grazing the pot of the peace flower with my fingers.
“Rachel, you’re not alone. You aren’t,” he added tactfully. “I should’ve come sooner.”
Three months went by.
The matter was taken to trial. As it happened, my parents had left no will at all. They didn’t think they would die so young. In the absence of a valid will, the court determined that I was the legitimate successor. It was my residence. Every paper had Dina’s name removed, as though she had never been there.
Her fake real estate ad disappeared. Outside the trial, in a private moment, she handed me the keys she had boasted about.
And Uncle Mike, too? He sued her for fraud, mental distress, and legal costs.
The house wasn’t the only thing she lost.
Everything was lost for her.
According to a neighbor, she now resides above a vape shop on the outskirts of town. It was a little one-bedroom apartment without central air conditioning and with flickering lights. The marble kitchen island she used to flaunt on social media is a far cry from that.
How about me?
I’m at home.
Even now, that sentence still seems unbelievable. My mom and I used to construct blanket forts in the living room, where I sit now. The scent of cinnamon has returned to the air, and the couch has a new cover. New flowers are being planted by me. In the kitchen, fresh herbs. A little rosemary, lavender, and basil.
The peace lily, too?
A week ago, it blossomed.
For a long time, I stood there looking at it. Like a silent, unyielding sigh, its white petals unfolded. like me.
Uncle Mike occasionally visits with his peculiar presents. A chess set from the past. A notebook of distinction. Last Sunday, he even assisted me in repairing the dripping bathroom faucet.
He handed me a wrench and remarked, “Rachel, you’re tougher than you think.” “Your dad would be proud.”
My smile came. I’m grateful, Uncle Mike. for everything.
Then he shrugged. “What are uncles for?”
I still long for my parents every day. But I’m learning how to start from scratch and create something new. A future, not simply a house.
How about that peace lily? By the window, it remains.
The proper place for it.
