The morning after that storm, my anger had hardened into resolve. I called Dad’s lawyer. “She locked us out,” I said flatly.
He checked the file. “You’re the trustee. The house is yours. She has no legal claim.”
Within hours, the paperwork was ready. I refused to serve the notice myself—too many slammed doors, too many words wasted. So the lawyer went instead. I waited in the car, watching through the rain-speckled windshield as my mother opened the door. Her face went from smug to ashen in seconds. Brittany started shouting before the door even closed.
That night, my lawyer called again. “They’ve hired counsel. Claiming undue influence.”
I laughed bitterly. “Taking care of a dying parent counts as manipulation now?”
He filed for emergency possession. The police report I’d submitted—the one documenting that my mother locked an eleven-year-old out in the rain—was enough. Within forty-eight hours, a judge signed the order.
One week later, deputies arrived at 10 a.m. sharp. I stood by my car, coffee in hand, watching as the storm I’d carried for years finally broke somewhere else.
Mom came out first, pointing at me. “She forged everything!”
“Ma’am,” the deputy said calmly, “we have a court order.”
Brittany followed, recording everything on her phone. “This is abuse! You can’t evict a widow!”
“You have fifteen minutes,” the deputy repeated.
They stormed inside, shouting and slamming doors. When they returned, Brittany carried two frames — one of her kids, one of Dad. Mom lingered on the threshold, eyes burning. “I hope you’re proud.”
I wasn’t. But I was free.
The deputy handed me the keys. “It’s yours now.”
Later, I picked Hannah up from school. “Are we moving again?” she asked.
“Home,” I said.
That night, laughter echoed through the empty rooms as she ran from one to the next. “It’s ours again!” she cried.
“Yeah,” I whispered. “It always was.”
Months have passed since then. The phones are blocked; the silence is peaceful. I heard that Mom tried moving in with Brittany’s family. It lasted a month before the fighting began again.
Here, the garden blooms. Hannah says flowers grow faster when no one’s yelling at them. Maybe she’s right. The locks haven’t changed. The storms are gone.
For the first time in my life, this house doesn’t feel like survival. It feels like home.
