I was 24, and it was time. Let me start by saying my mother kicked me out to impress her new husband. Or, if “kicked out” seems harsh, let’s say she moved me out of my own home to live with my paternal grandparents.
All my good memories are tied to when my dad was alive. We lost him when I was seven. I was devastated. Seeing him in a coffin broke my heart, a memory that still saddens me to this day. While I was still processing the loss, my mom showed up with another man and insisted I call him “Dad.” I refused. I don’t know if I was right or wrong, but it felt like a betrayal just months after my own father’s demise. Soon, I’d often find this man in my mom’s bedroom. It was difficult to see how quickly she had moved on.
She didn’t even wait a year before bringing my dad’s replacement into our house. I had just turned eight when they had their “beautiful” wedding. She left me with my grandparents for their honeymoon. A month passed, and she didn’t return. I kept asking my grandparents when Mom would come, but they had no answer. Then, one day, she appeared. I was so excited, rushing to hug her, but she had brought all my belongings with her. She was dumping me at my grandparents’ house. I was heartbroken.
I lived with them through high school and was happy. My mom would visit sometimes, armed with empty words about how much she loved and cared for me. When I’d ask why she abandoned me if she loved me so much, she’d deflect. “Oh, your grandparents are getting old; they need a helping hand.” Much later, she admitted the real reason: she had given my room to her stepchildren. Her new husband, Bill, and his two children had moved into our house, and she prioritized her new family over me. Resentment was natural, and I eventually stopped bothering with her.
Now, at 24, after working in marketing, I decided to start my own venture. I needed capital, so I planned to lease my house. Oh, did I forget to mention? The house they were living in belonged to me. My dad, on his deathbed, had made a meticulous will, leaving me every penny he had, including the house. I was a child when his lawyer read it, but I remember the look on my mother’s face. She tried to overturn the will several times but lost. My dad had been precise: the house would be mine, but I could only sell or lease it after I turned 21. My grandparents believe he foresaw my mother’s intentions.
Last month, I called Mom to inform her of my plans. She didn’t answer. When I visited my grandparents, they warned me. “You might face a lot of resistance,” they said. Mom’s stepdaughter, Brenda, was pregnant by a teenage boy who had run away, and Bill had lost his job. They were in bad financial shape. I didn’t know what to do. I needed that house. I had quit my job and needed the capital.
Update One
It became dramatic. I decided to give them a few months’ notice, a generous extension from the one month I’d originally planned. Since Mom wasn’t answering my calls, I went to her—to my—house. It had a cold vibe, and so did she. Seeing me at the door, she offered a fake smile and a half-hearted hug. We were meeting after almost a decade. She didn’t bother asking how I’d been. It was like, Oh, you’re here. It must be important.
The pleaser in me said, “Oh, no, nothing important. Just came to check on you.”
A wave of silence followed. My pregnant stepsister, Brenda, was also home, giving me a foul look as if I were there to cause trouble. I dropped the idea of discussing the house and left.
But my mother crossed all limits of narcissism. Last week was my dad’s 15th death anniversary. My grandparents held a small prayer at church, and I decided to host a decent ceremony. I emailed an invitation to my mom. She never opened it. I thought maybe it went to spam, so I showed up at her house again. This time, Brenda answered the door.
“You’re back again. What’s the matter?” she snapped.
“I’m here to see Mom,” I said.
“The way she spoke to you last time, do you think she wants to meet you again?” Her bluntness was stunning. I managed to say I was there to invite Mom to Dad’s prayer ceremony.
She chuckled in my face. “That was like, centuries ago. You’re still holding onto that? Get over it.”
“Excuse me? He was my dad. It’s none of your business.”
She rolled her eyes and stalked off to her room. I left a note for Mom and left. She called the next day. I told her about the prayer, and after a moment of silence, she said she couldn’t make it. Brenda had a checkup. She didn’t even try; she just shut it down.
“Yeah, of course,” I replied sarcastically. “They’re your priority. We’re no one to you. Good luck raising that narcissistic woman and her bastard child.”
She flipped out. “Why should I be nice to her when she was so mean to me?” I countered.
“It’s natural for her to get furious! You can’t talk about the dead in front of a pregnant woman! You’re such an insensitive dud, like your father!”
The moment she insulted my dad, I lost it. “Don’t you talk trash about my father! If anyone here is insensitive, it’s you!”
“Your father died 15 years ago, goddammit! Get over it!”
“Sure,” I shot back. “The way you did? Within weeks? Or maybe days? You know what? Don’t come. My father wouldn’t want your prayers after seeing your true colors.”
I hung up. That same day, I hired a lawyer. Within two weeks, a legal eviction notice was sent. As expected, she freaked out. She left a voicemail screaming that she never thought I’d go to such lengths for “revenge.” I laughed and blocked her. She showed up at my grandparents’ place, demanding they convince me to withdraw the notice. They calmly told her it was my property and my decision. She didn’t like that answer, blaming them for raising an “entitled brat.”
I gave them the standard 30-day eviction notice. My kind-hearted grandparents convinced me to honor it. “There’s a pregnant woman there,” they said. “Don’t be cruel to the unborn.” I sighed and agreed.
Mom called. I ignored it. Then she texted: “It’s urgent.” I told her to check my calendar and book an appointment. She came to meet me at my grandparents’ house, and I deliberately made her wait for an hour.
When I finally met her, she sat with a straight face. “Okay, let me start,” she said. “I can’t sit here forever.”
“Finding a new house is a difficult job,” I murmured.
She shot me an annoyed look. “What is this notice about?”
“It’s written in English. I’m sure you can read it.”
She was absolutely pissed. She threw the notice at my face. “I am not going to vacate this house based on some stupid notice!”
After she was done yelling, I said calmly, “Then let’s wait and witness the repercussions of not following a court order.”
“I gave birth to you! Don’t you try to outsmart me! This house is my husband’s, and no one can throw me out!”
The moment she referred to my dad as her husband, I snapped. “You have the audacity to call him your husband when you skipped his prayer because he was ‘history’? You don’t deserve his house. You are just squatters, and I’m going to free that house from all you leeches.”
She stood up. “I was being nice. Now you’ll have to deal with my lawyer.”
“Sure,” I laughed. “By all means. We still have 20 days.”
Update Two
I got the house. The next series of events was pure narcissism. Brenda came charging at me, threatening to press a harassment case. She was playing her pregnancy victim card. I told her I had cameras installed and one more step onto the property would get her arrested. Then my mother came, accusing me of mentally torturing her “pregnant Brenda.” I told her to sue me and let the judge see the camera footage.
When force failed, she tried guilt. She started sobbing, blaming herself for how I turned out, even blaming my dead father for dying too early.
“Hold on,” I said. “If anyone is to be blamed, it’s you. Not for raising me wrong—because you never raised me. My grandparents did. And I see how badly you’ve raised your stepdaughter.”
I tried to explain my situation one last time—the new business, the need for capital. She flipped out that I was throwing out “family” to let strangers live there.
“The strangers are going to pay me rent,” I said. “If you agree to pay, you can stay.”
She freaked out again, saying I was bringing money into family matters. “There is no family here!” I yelled. “You threw me away like garbage!”
When all her manipulation failed, she left. But they didn’t vacate. Her loser husband, Bill, was the final boss. He sent me a voicemail. “Dude, you don’t know who you’re messing with. I can deadlift you and make you plead for your life. One punch and you’ll forget about the house. You show up here again, and I’m going to knock you out.”
He’s a big, dumb bully. He laid out the evidence against himself. On the day of the eviction, I went to the police station with the voicemail and my lawyer. We registered a case of threats. For some extra cash, the cops agreed to accompany us.
When we reached the house, Mom, Bill, and Brenda started cussing us out. Bill came out with a hockey stick, but he stepped back the moment he saw the police car. The cops showed them the eviction notice. So confident they could chase me off, they hadn’t even packed. They asked for another month. The cops looked at me.
“No way,” I said. “Not after the threats.”
They tried to use Brenda’s pregnancy to buy more time, but I put my foot down. They bargained for a day. I gave them three hours. Bill even tried to brush his shoulder against me, his eyes red with rage.
“Get moving!” one of the cops yelled. “More packing, less staring.”
The police made them hand over the keys at the station. My lawyer suggested a restraining order, which we got. The look of utter defeat on their faces was unmissable.
Finally, I got the house. It’s up for lease now. I hope to get a good deal and start my business. Enough of dealing with them.