At brunch a few months before he passed, my dad finally told me the truth.
He admitted he’d known Carla was after his money. He’d overheard her on the phone with her sister, laughing about how she planned to sell the house and live off his life insurance as soon as he was gone.
“I won’t let her take your childhood home, Liv,” he said quietly, sliding a thick manila envelope across the table. “I transferred the deed to you. Today. It’s already done. Legally, the house is yours.”
He made me promise not to tell her. He didn’t want a war while he was still alive—he just wanted to make sure I was protected.
I kept that promise.
So when I came home weeks later and found my belongings dumped on the porch, the locks changed, and a nasty note taped to the door, I cried—for about ten seconds.
Then I smiled.
I didn’t knock. I didn’t argue. I called the police.
When the officers arrived, Carla flung the door open, smug and triumphant.
“Finally! Officer, remove this trespasser. She’s refusing to leave my house.”
She crossed her arms and smirked. “I told you, Olivia. You were just a guest.”
“Actually,” I said calmly, pulling up the digital copy of the deed on my phone and handing it to the officer, “I’m the owner. My father transferred the title to me three months ago. Here’s the registered, timestamped transfer.”
Her face drained of color instantly.
She tried to grab the phone, but the officer stopped her, reviewed the documents, and then turned to her.
“Ma’am, this property belongs to Ms. Olivia. You have no legal right to be here. You’ll need to leave immediately, or you’ll be arrested for trespassing.”
“That’s impossible!” Carla screamed. “My kids are moving in tomorrow!”
“Not anymore,” I said, stepping past her to retrieve my mother’s painting and my dog’s ashes from the floor. “And since you changed the locks on my house, I’ll need the keys. Now.”
She was escorted off the property in tears, clutching a trash bag of clothes, while her plans collapsed in real time.
I locked the door behind her and hung my mom’s painting back where it belonged.
Dad was right.
Carla thought she’d buried me—but she forgot my father had already handed me the shovel.
