01/21/2026
My name's Rachel. I'm 19. Last autumn, my life was shattered when both my parents were killed in a car accident. They were headed to dinner, and by 3 a.m., I was in a sterile hallway hugging cheap coffee, wishing I could undo time.
After the funeral, home was oppressively quiet. I still waited for Mom’s song or Dad’s voice, but only silence came. I stayed in my room, except for feeding the cat or warming up a meal. Every day, grief made my world smaller.
Soon, the will was read.
I attended in black pants and a blazer carrying my mother’s scent. My hands trembled as I clung to the hem of my shirt.
Aunt Dina—my father’s estranged sister—sat across. Dad never spoke warmly about her. She wore a red party dress, looking indifferent, and didn’t even fake sadness.
The lawyer said, "According to the will, the house will be passed on to Ms. Dina."
I was stunned. "I'm sorry, what?"
Dina smirked. "YOU HEARD HIM."
"That can't be right," I replied shakily. "My parents wouldn't have done that—she wasn’t close to us."
The lawyer explained, "That's what's in the will. It's valid and signed."
Breathless, I said, "There must be a mistake."
Dina stretched out. "No mistake. IT'S MY HOUSE NOW!"
Leaving, I replayed every scene with my parents, searching for answers.
Two days later, Dina demanded, "YOU’VE GOT ONE DAY TO GET OUT OF MY HOUSE."
I begged to help with bills; she rolled her eyes and sank into the couch.
"Can you move?! You're blocking the TV."
She seemed to care about nothing but the TV. As she lounged, I packed my life into bags.
The next morning, teary-eyed, I saw a black limousine. As I walked past, the door opened and my name was called.
Turning, I was at a loss for words.
"What are you doing here?" I asked. ⬇️