As I stood on the lawn after Dad’s funeral, watching my family’s callous display, I felt a strange sense of detachment. They tossed my belongings onto the grass as if they were clearing out old furniture. When they changed the locks and sneered at me, something inside me snapped. I stayed silent, however, because I knew something they didn’t.
The notary stepped forward, a stack of paperwork in hand. My family awaited the reading of the will, fully expecting to take control of the house. Their smug faces quickly turned to confusion and then horror when the notary spoke the unexpected words: “The house isn’t in the will, because it already belongs to Sheila.”
