When my mother died, I was ten. My dad, heartbroken, held our world together with burnt French toast and quiet tears in the garage. But by the time I was fourteen, Cheryl arrived with her sugary voice and thick perfume. My dad saw her as warmth; I saw her as erosion. After he passed suddenly when I was nineteen, Cheryl wasted no time erasing his memory—photos gone, his name wiped from the mailbox—and told me I “wasn’t really family anymore.”
I left quietly, staying with my best friend. One call to my aunt Janine changed everything. The next morning, I returned to the house to retrieve my things—and found lawyers, black SUVs, and Janine in a slate-gray suit. Turns out, my dad had transferred the house into my name the year before. Cheryl had no legal claim. Within an hour, she was gone, her suitcases dragging behind her.
With Cheryl out, Janine stayed. We baked pecan pie from my mom’s old recipe and sat in the kitchen surrounded by flour, healing in quiet laughter. I wandered the house, rediscovering light switches labeled in Dad’s handwriting, his cedar-scented jacket, and a box of keepsakes he’d hidden away. For the first time in years, the house felt like home again—not haunted, but whole.
That night, I played the song I’d written after his funeral, fingers fumbling, heart steady. It didn’t have to be perfect. Neither did I. This house, once filled with ache, now held space for peace. In its silence, I wasn’t lost. I was finding my way back.