Things worsened when my Aunt Dina, who had scarcely been present in our lives, turned up for the will reading. To my surprise, the house was reportedly left to her.

Days later, she arrived at the front door and instructed me to gather my belongings and leave. I had nowhere to go, but she didn’t mind; she was already settling into our couch.

I spent the night quietly packing, devastated and confused, as she mocked me across the room. The next morning, when I stepped outside with my belongings and a wilting peace lily, a black limousine arrived. My Uncle Mike, whom I had not seen in years, stepped out.

He had noticed a social media post where Dina claimed ownership of the residence and sensed something was awry.

He provided evidence that the will had been forged—Dina had fabricated everything, including the signature. Dina was arrested immediately after police arrived, based on Mike’s evidence. There was no true will, thus the court found in my favor.

I legally owned the house, and Dina had returned everything she had tried to take. She not only lost her home, but also her reputation and credibility. Uncle Mike encouraged me throughout the process and reminded me that I was not alone—he was there to help me rebuild.

Now I live in the house again, slowly bringing it back to life. I’ve started planting herbs in the kitchen, and the peace lily, which was previously dormant, is blooming. Uncle Mike pays frequent visits to help with repairs and offer encouragement.

Losing my parents still hurts, but I’m mending, finding strength in the memories we made and the people who actually care.