After Mr. Harrison passed away, Cynthia thought the worst was behind her. She had no idea that Mrs. Davies and her grown children were about to turn her grieving period into something far worse. But Mrs. Miller arrived with something no one expected.

After Cynthia’s parents separated, she stayed with Mr. Harrison.

Not because she didn’t love her mom—she did. But Mrs. Miller was moving out of state, and Cynthia didn’t want to leave her school, her friends, or the room she’d grown up in. Both her parents understood.

When Mr. Harrison married Mrs. Davies, Cynthia tried to make it work. Mrs. Davies did not.

She barely tolerated Cynthia. Her smiles seemed fake, and her tone always had a sharp edge.

Like when she’d say, “You left your plate in the sink again,” in that sugary-sweet voice that screamed, You’re not really wanted here.

Her adult kids, Leo and Chloe, were just as bad. They’d swagger in like they owned the place—eating Mr. Harrison’s food, blasting the TV, and rolling their eyes at Cynthia like she was some stray dog who hadn’t been kicked out yet.

But Mr. Harrison had Cynthia’s back.

Always.

He never let them push Cynthia around. If Mrs. Davies snapped, he’d deflect. If Leo, Cynthia’s stepbrother, made snide remarks, Mr. Harrison shut it down fast. He was the shield between Cynthia and all of them. That’s what made it bearable. That’s what made it home.

Then he died.

Just like that. A heart attack on a random Tuesday. Cynthia was still in shock when the funeral happened. She felt like she was floating through it, completely detached.

Everyone said the usual things: He was a good man. He loved you so much. He’s in a better place now. Cynthia wanted to scream at all of them.

After the service, Cynthia didn’t want to go back to the house. There were too many memories, too much tension. So she stayed the night at her best friend Sarah’s place, just a few blocks away.

Sarah’s family understood Cynthia needed time to clear her head.

The next morning, Cynthia walked home.

She should have known something was wrong. The driveway was empty, but the porch… was full.

With all of Cynthia’s things. Her clothes, books, a picture of Cynthia and Mr. Harrison fishing when she was eight, and much more—all tossed into cardboard boxes like garbage.

A sweater she thought she’d lost was hanging halfway out of one box.

Cynthia blinked, confused. “What the…?”

She dropped her bag and ran to the door.

Locked.

She jiggled the knob, knocked, then knocked harder. The door opened, and Mrs. Davies stood there with her arms crossed and a smug look.

Behind her, Leo leaned against the hallway wall, smirking. Chloe sat on the stairs inside, scrolling through her phone, barely looking up.

“You really thought you’d stay here?” Mrs. Davies said, tilting her head. “This house is for family.”

Cynthia’s mouth opened, but no words came out.

“This was your father’s home,” Mrs. Davies continued. “And now he’s gone, so as his wife, it’s mine. It’s time for my family to move forward. I suggest you do the same.”

Cynthia was heartbroken—and homeless—just days after burying her father.

She whispered, “You’re kicking me out?”

Chloe laughed softly, finally looking up, smirking at Cynthia. Leo grinned the same way.

“You have no right,” Cynthia said, her voice breaking.

Mrs. Davies chuckled. “Oh, sweetie, I do. Now take your things and leave. If you don’t, I’ll have no choice but to call the police.”

With that, she shut the door in Cynthia’s face. Cynthia knew she meant it, so she scrambled to grab what she could—her backpack, a tote bag stuffed with clothes, and the framed picture of her and Mr. Harrison.

Her fingers shook so badly she dropped the picture once. She was still in the yard when she noticed eyes on her. Their neighbor, Mrs. Thompson, stood quietly on her porch, watching.

She came over softly and said, “If you need somewhere to go, I have a spare couch.”

Cynthia probably should’ve gone back to Sarah’s, but she was so shocked she barely managed to nod and thank the kind older woman.

That night, Cynthia sat on Mrs. Thompson’s couch, hugging her knees to her chest. The porch light barely reached through the living room window.

She felt small. Lost. Like everything solid in her life had cracked open.

Then she pulled out her phone. She didn’t want to do it.

Mrs. Miller hadn’t been able to take time off work to come to Mr. Harrison’s funeral to support Cynthia. But Cynthia didn’t know what else to do.

So she called her mother.

“Mom?” Cynthia’s voice cracked. Mrs. Miller immediately grew worried. “No, I’m okay. I mean… well, not really. It’s Mrs. Davies… she changed the locks. Said the house is for family and kicked me out.”

“What?!”

“I know you couldn’t come because of work, but I’m at Mrs. Thompson’s now. I could try to take a bus tomorrow—”

“No,” Mrs. Miller interrupted. “Stay put. I’ll be there in a few hours.”

And she hung up. She drove through the night.

When Cynthia woke around six the next morning, she heard her mother’s car pull into Mrs. Thompson’s driveway. She ran outside barefoot.

Her mother stepped out, and Cynthia jumped into her arms.

For a moment, neither spoke.

Then her mother pulled back and looked Cynthia in the eyes.

“Sweetheart, I have to tell you something. Something he didn’t want you to know,” she said. “And there’s more he didn’t want Mrs. Davies and her kids to know either.”

Cynthia blinked. “What do you mean?”

Her mother took a deep breath. “Sweetie, I didn’t come for your dad’s funeral because of why we separated. I cheated on him. He wouldn’t have wanted me there. We ended on horrible terms but kept it hidden. None of us wanted you to know the truth,” she admitted, not meeting Cynthia’s eyes for a moment. “I was ashamed too.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Cynthia muttered. This was not the time for that bombshell!

“I know. I was awful, but I’m telling you now because…” she paused, swallowing hard, “I wanted to make things right somehow. So, I paid off the entire mortgage after the divorce in one lump sum. And although the deed was in my name, I told your father it would always be his home—and yours.”

Cynthia stepped back, shaking her head. “Dad let you do that? Even after…?”

“Yes, but he always intended to gift it to you one day,” her mother explained.

“I can’t believe this.”

“I know it’s a lot,” Mrs. Miller said. “But Cynthia, that means Mrs. Davies doesn’t own the house. Your dad never did. And I brought the deed to prove it.”

At that moment, Mrs. Thompson’s voice came through. “Why don’t you both come inside? Looks like you have a real eviction to sort out,” she said kindly.

Cynthia smiled. “Okay,” she breathed.

They waited until the weekend. Mrs. Davies and her kids had gone away.

Mrs. Miller called a locksmith Saturday morning.

Cynthia stood watching as the locksmith changed the locks. Mrs. Miller calmly directed movers to pack up Mrs. Davies’ and her kids’ things—neatly—and place everything on the lawn.

Early Monday morning, Cynthia heard their car pull up.

She didn’t need to look to know it was them. She heard the scream.

“What the hell is this?!” Mrs. Davies’ voice cut through the air like a siren.

Cynthia peeked through the window. Mrs. Davies was in slippers and a travel hoodie, eyes puffy. Leo was shouting behind her, Chloe crying.

“This is OUR house!” Mrs. Davies screamed. “Open this door RIGHT NOW!”

Mrs. Miller opened the door and stepped outside slowly, holding the deed in one hand. “Oh,” she said calmly. “I think there’s been a little misunderstanding. This isn’t your house.”

Mrs. Davies’ jaw dropped as she stared at the paper. “What is that?”

“It’s the deed to the house,” Mrs. Miller said. “I own it. See? Your ex never did. So you threw my daughter out illegally. I just fixed your mistake.”

Leo growled like an angry dog and tried to push past her.

Mrs. Miller stood firm. “Come any closer, and I’ll call the police.”

He stopped.

The situation went on for about ten minutes. Mrs. Davies cried. Chloe collapsed on a box, wailing. Some neighbor must have called the cops because of the noise.

They had to explain everything while Mrs. Davies, Leo, and Chloe tried to play the victim in front of the officers. In the end, they had no proof.

The cops told them to leave, and they packed up and drove away. Cynthia and her mother watched everything from inside.

Once they were gone, they sat on the couch, and Cynthia finally felt she could breathe again.

“You okay?” Mrs. Miller asked.

Cynthia nodded. “Better.”

Mrs. Miller smiled. “Now that that’s done, we’ll get the deed in your name as soon as you turn 18. That’s just a few weeks away. I want you to have a future they can’t touch.”

Cynthia didn’t say anything at first. She just hugged her mother.

At that moment, she didn’t care about her mother’s past. That could wait.

For now, she could relax and finally mourn her father—safely, in her home.