Losing my parents changed everything, but it wasn’t until the will was read that I realized just how alone I really was. I always thought grief would come crashing in like a wave — loud, violent, all at once. But for me, it trickled in.
A voicemail from a stranger. A sterile hospital waiting room. Two cops who wouldn’t meet my eyes.
My name’s Rachel. I’m 19, and last fall, my world fell apart when my parents died in a car crash. One minute they were on their way to dinner; the next, I was standing in a cold hallway at 3 a.m., clutching a paper cup of vending machine coffee, wishing I could hit rewind.
After the funeral, the house was too quiet. I kept expecting to hear Mom humming in the kitchen or Dad calling from the garage. I barely left my room except to feed the cat and microwave frozen meals.
Grief has a way of shrinking the world. Then came the will reading. I showed up in borrowed black slacks and a blazer that still smelled like my mom’s perfume.
My hands wouldn’t stop shaking, so I twisted the hem of my shirt like it was a life raft. Across from me sat Aunt Dina — technically my dad’s sister, though I’d never once heard him speak kindly about her. She wore a tight red dress like she was headed to a cocktail party instead of a legal meeting about her dead brother’s estate.
She didn’t cry; didn’t even pretend to. The lawyer cleared his throat. “According to the will, the house will be passed on to Ms.
Dina.”
I blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”
Dina smiled like a cat who just ate the canary. “You heard him.”
“That’s not possible,” I said, my voice shaking.
“My parents would never—she hated my mom. She barely spoke to us.”
The lawyer shifted uncomfortably. “This is what’s documented.
The will appears to be valid and signed.”
I felt like the air had been sucked out of the room. “There has to be a mistake.”
“There’s no mistake,” Dina said, leaning back like she owned the place already. “It’s my house now.”
I left the office numb, replaying every memory of my parents, trying to figure out how this could have happened.
I kept hoping someone would call me and say it was a clerical error. No one did. Two days later, she came knocking.
I opened the front door in pajamas and fuzzy socks. She didn’t even bother with small talk. “You’ve got one day to pack up and get out,” she said, crossing her arms.
“I want the place cleaned up before I move in.”
My heart dropped. “Dina, I don’t have anywhere else to go.”
She shrugged. “Not my problem.”
“I’m your niece.”
“Correction,” she said, stepping past me like she owned the floor.
“I’m your landlord. And I want you out.”
I tried to plead. I told her I could find a job, help with the bills, or anything else.
She just rolled her eyes and flopped down on the couch. “Can you move? You’re blocking the TV.”
So I packed.
I didn’t sleep that night. Just moved slowly through the house, folding clothes into suitcases and wrapping photo frames in towels. Every corner of that place held a memory: Dad teaching me to ride my bike in the backyard, Mom dancing with me in the kitchen, birthday parties with homemade cake, and the smell of cinnamon in the air.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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