My name is Sheila. I’m 32 and the financial director at a pretty big company. I worked my ass off to get here because ten years ago, my family threw me out on the street.
When I was six, my mom left. Ran off with some guy, leaving a note saying she “couldn’t do the family thing anymore.” So, it was just me and Dad for three years. He tried his best, and we had a good routine.
Then, when I was nine, she came back, crying and begging, with a little girl in tow. A DNA test confirmed the kid, my sister Emma, was Dad’s. He forgave my mother, they got remarried, and I thought maybe things would go back to normal.
Boy, was I wrong.
From the moment Mom moved back in, I became a ghost in my own house. All her attention, all of Dad’s attention, went to Emma. I was excluded from everything. When I graduated valedictorian, they showed up but left early because Emma had a soccer game.
The day I got a full scholarship to college across the state was the best day of my life. After graduation, I came home, figuring I could stay for a few months while I job-hunted.
“You can stay two weeks,” Dad said. “Emma’s 16 now. She needs her privacy.”
“You’re an adult now, Sheila,” Mom added. “Time to stand on your own two feet.”
I crashed at a friend’s place, found a job, and built my career from scratch. I was done with them.
Ten years later, my assistant knocked on my office door. “Sheila, there’s someone here to see you. Says he’s your father.”
I took the elevator down, and there he was. But he looked terrible, like he’d aged fifteen years. He was thin, pale, and frail.
“I have cancer,” he said finally as we sat in a cafe. “Pancreatic. Doctors say I’ve got maybe two or three years.”
Despite everything, he was still my dad. “I’m sorry,” I said, and I meant it. “Is there anything I can do?”
He took a deep breath. “The house. I’m behind on the mortgage payments. The bank’s threatening to foreclose. I want you to buy it from me. Pay off what I owe, and it’s yours. That way, at least it stays in the family, and your mom and Emma don’t lose their home.”
I stared at him. The man who kicked me out was now asking me to save their house. My first instinct was to laugh in his face. But then I thought about it. I’d been looking to buy a house, and this was a smart investment. The property values had skyrocketed.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll do it.”
Two months later, it was official. I owned the house I grew up in. Mom and Emma never knew.
A couple of months after that, Dad invited me to a family dinner. It was just as awkward as I’d expected. Dad was happy to see me, Mom was politely cold, and Emma spent the entire meal bragging about her recent trip to Europe, her new Mercedes, and the designer bag that probably cost three grand—all paid for with the money I’d given Dad for the house. I just smiled and ate my dinner.
Six months went by like this. Then Dad’s health took a nosedive. I started coming over every day after work to take care of him because Mom and Emma couldn’t be bothered with “the gross stuff.” Eventually, at his request, I moved back into my old room.
Three months later, Dad died. I was with him at the end, holding his hand. Mom and Emma had gone out to buy funeral outfits.
The day after the funeral, I came back from the cemetery to find all my belongings in trash bags on the front lawn. The locks had been changed.
“Go away, Sheila!” Mom called from inside. “This house belongs to us now. You don’t live here anymore.”
I didn’t make a scene. I loaded my stuff into my car and drove to a friend’s place. They’re about to get a very unpleasant surprise, I thought.
Two days later, we all gathered at the lawyer’s office for the reading of the will. Mom, Emma, and her new live-in boyfriend, Tyler, were all smiles.
The lawyer began. To my wife, half of my remaining bank accounts. To my daughter Emma, the other half, plus all personal property within the house. To my daughter Sheila, my personal library.
Emma was grinning. “What about the house?” she asked eagerly.
The lawyer looked confused. “The house isn’t mentioned in the will.”
“What do you mean?” Mom demanded. “He owned the house!”
“According to my records,” the lawyer said, “your husband didn’t own the house at the time of his death. It appears to have been sold over a year ago.”
The room went dead silent. “That’s impossible!” Mom shrieked.
I stood up slowly. “There’s no mistake. The house belongs to me.”
Emma’s face went white. “What?”
I reached into my purse and pulled out the deed. “I bought it from Dad over a year ago. Dad needed money, so I helped him. Legal sale, properly recorded. It’s been mine for fourteen months.”
“You’re lying!” Emma screamed.
The lawyer examined the deed. “This appears to be legitimate.”
“This can’t be real!” Mom snatched the papers, her voice shrill. “This is fraud! You tricked him!”
“Nobody tricked anybody,” I said calmly. “Dad needed help. I helped him. Simple as that.”
“You knew!” Emma was on her feet now, pointing at me. “You knew we thought we were getting the house!”
“You never asked. You just assumed. And speaking of which,” I said, my voice turning to ice, “you have two weeks to move out.”
“Two weeks?” Mom shrieked. “We can’t find a place in two weeks!”
“You should have thought of that before you threw my belongings on the lawn.” I walked toward the door.
Over the next week, my phone rang constantly. Mom crying and begging. Emma screaming and threatening. I ignored them all.
Two weeks later, I drove to the house. There was a moving truck in the driveway. When I walked inside, the place was stripped bare. They’d taken the furniture, the appliances, even the light fixtures and the toilet seats. The only things left were Dad’s books.
Emma saw me in the doorway, tears streaming down her face. “This is all your fault! We’re going to be living in some shitty apartment because of you!”
“You’re living in a shitty apartment because you spent all your inheritance on stupid crap instead of being responsible adults,” I replied calmly. They drove away without another word.
I stood in my empty house and smiled.
Over the next few months, I heard what happened. Mom had to go back to work full-time. Emma sold her Mercedes and got a job at a retail store. Tyler dumped her as soon as he realized she wasn’t rich anymore.
I’ve been living in the house for two years now. I’ve renovated it exactly how I wanted. The house where I never felt welcome is now my sanctuary. The family that threw me away is struggling while I’m thriving. Do I feel bad about it? Not really. They made their choices. I made mine. And if that makes me the villain in their story, I can live with that. Sometimes, the good guys really do win in the end.