I returned to my childhood home a few days after my dad’s death, heartbroken and disoriented, only to find the locks changed and a cruel message taped to the front door. Carla, my stepmother, had wasted no time in making her move. She claimed the house as her own, tossed my belongings onto the porch, and left behind nothing but a cold note that said I was never more than a guest.
Grieving and furious, I stood outside the home filled with memories of my father, watching it slip through my fingers. But when Dad’s lawyer called with urgent news about a secret in his will, everything changed. The house wasn’t Carla’s to claim — it was mine, placed in a trust just months before he passed. And as I sat in the lawyer’s office hearing those words, I realized: my father had known what was coming… and he made sure she’d regret underestimating me.