I was 14 when my mom died, leaving just Dad and me. A year later, he married Karen. She came into our lives with flashy makeup and perfume, calling my mom’s things “junk.”
By the time I turned 18, her nice act was gone — on my birthday, she told me I had to start paying rent. But she didn’t know that my mom had left the house to me. It took time for the legal process, but the house was finally in my name.
One night, Karen cornered me and snapped, “Not in my house.” That’s when I handed her the papers proving it was mine. Her face went pale when she realized the truth.
She got angry, told Dad to support her, and acted like the victim when I didn’t back down. I started keeping records of everything — her spending, her yelling, even her cheating. Dad began to see it too. The final straw was when he caught her with another man. I showed him all my proof, and he told her to leave.
She later tried to get money from him in court, but I used the small savings Mom left me to hire a lawyer. My evidence proved she was lying, and the case was thrown out. After that, the house felt peaceful. Dad and I started rebuilding our lives — cooking together, fixing things, and finally grieving properly.
Months later, Karen wrote from a small, sad apartment, asking if she could “come home.”
I replied with one sentence: “Home was never yours.” Family isn’t about titles — it’s about how you treat each other. And sometimes, the best revenge is simply peace.