Twelve months after my mother passed away, I came back home only to see my luggage placed neatly by the entrance and an unfamiliar woman lounging in the living room. She was draped in my late mother’s robe. With a smug grin, my mom’s former boyfriend’s new fiancée told me it was time for me to go. What she didn’t realize was that she was in the wrong house.

I stepped inside, pushing the door open, the wheels of my suitcase gliding over the floor. A mix of cheap fragrance and something greasy filled the air. That wasn’t right. My mother always made sure the house felt clean, cozy, and familiar.

Then, my gaze landed on the two suitcases stacked neatly beside the entrance. My suitcases. My breath hitched, and my heartbeat thundered in my ears.

Had someone broken in? No. The door wasn’t tampered with. The place had an occupied feel. That’s when I heard the television playing.

I moved toward the living room and immediately froze.

A woman sat there, legs crossed, relaxed. A remote was in one hand, a glass of wine in the other. She flicked through channels as if she owned the place. But the worst part?

She was wearing my mom’s robe.

She turned her head, eyes running over me as though I was an unexpected delivery.

“Oh,” she said with a chuckle. “Didn’t expect you back so soon.”

My voice was sharper than I intended. “Who are you?”

She stretched lazily across the couch, completely unbothered. “Vanessa. Rick’s fiancée.”

Rick. My mother’s former partner. The man I had allowed to stay here as a final favor to her.

I clenched my teeth. “Where’s Rick?”

Vanessa took a small sip of her wine, a satisfied expression on her face. “Out running errands. He told me all about you.” She casually placed the glass down on the coffee table—my mother’s coffee table. “Look, darling, Rick and I have decided we need this space for ourselves now. You understand, don’t you?”

I stood there, motionless. My mind struggled to process her words. They needed this place?

“This is my home,” I said slowly.

She actually laughed. “Oh, sweetheart. I know Rick was being generous by letting you stay, but let’s be real. You’re an adult now. It’s time to move on.”

I clenched my jaw. “Rick doesn’t own this house.”

She waved her hand dismissively. “Oh, we’ll get all that paperwork sorted soon. Actually, the lawyer is coming in about an hour to discuss everything.”

A lawyer?

I inhaled deeply, trying to control the tremor in my hands. Vanessa watched me expectantly, waiting for an outburst, for tears, for anything she could ridicule. I gave her nothing. I met her gaze and said, “Then I’ll wait.”

For just a second, her confident smile wavered. But she quickly recovered, shrugging. “Suit yourself.”

I lowered myself into a chair across from her, arms folded, my heart hammering. She smirked and turned her attention back to the television, acting as if I was the one who didn’t belong.

I remembered sitting beside my mother’s hospital bed in silence, waiting. Her voice was faint, but she held my hand tightly.

“This house is yours, darling,” she had whispered. “Everything is taken care of. You won’t have to stress.”

I swallowed my tears. “Okay, Mom.”

She sighed, her gaze drifting toward the doorway. I knew exactly who she was thinking about. Rick.

“Just… don’t kick him out immediately,” she murmured. “He needs time to figure things out.”

I wanted to tell her that Rick had years to figure things out. He was in his forties, unemployed, and had been “figuring things out” for as long as I had known him.

But my mother was dying. I wasn’t about to argue with her.

So I simply nodded. “I won’t.”

She smiled faintly, squeezed my hand one last time, and closed her eyes. A week later, she was gone.

I honored her request. That was my mistake. Rick never left.

Initially, he claimed he only needed a month to get back on his feet. That month became three. Then six.

I was barely holding myself together—grieving, working, preparing for college. Meanwhile, Rick carried on as if he owned the house.

It started small. Sitting in her favorite chair, flipping through the channels like he ruled the place. Leaving empty beer cans scattered around. Making snide remarks about what I “should” be doing with his space.

Then it got worse. One day, my mother’s framed pictures were missing from the mantle. Another time, he invited guests over without asking.

By the time I left for my college prep program, I barely recognized my own home. But I still held onto hope that by the time I returned, he’d be gone.

Now, seeing Vanessa lounging in my mother’s robe, I finally understood—Rick never intended to leave.

And now, he thought I was the guest.

I sat in silence, arms crossed, my eyes locked on the television as Vanessa ignored my presence.

Rick strolled in about twenty minutes later, radiating arrogance, as if he had already won. He barely acknowledged me, planting a kiss on Vanessa’s cheek before dropping onto the couch beside her.

“Guess she got the update,” he muttered, gesturing toward me.

Vanessa laughed. “Yeah, and she’s handling it so well.”

Rick stretched his arms behind his head, completely at ease. “Kid, let’s not drag this out. We gave you more than enough time. Thought you’d be mature about this.”

The doorbell rang. I stood up. “That’ll be the lawyer.”

Rick frowned. “What?”

I stepped past him, pulled the door open, and let the man inside. He was older, dressed in a sharp suit, a leather briefcase in hand. Without sparing Rick a glance, he pulled out a thick pile of documents.

“I’m Mr. Thompson,” he introduced himself. “Your mother’s lawyer.” He turned to me. “You are the rightful owner of this house. These papers confirm that.”

Rick’s smirk disappeared. “Wait, what?”

Mr. Thompson calmly flipped through the documents. “Your mother’s will is explicit. This home and all its assets legally belong to her daughter.” Adjusting his glasses, he locked eyes with Rick. “You have no claim to this property.”

Vanessa bolted upright. “That’s impossible,” she snapped. “Rick told me—” Her eyes narrowed as she turned to him. “You told me you owned this place.”

Rick had gone pale. “I—I mean, I assumed—”

“You lied to me?” Vanessa exploded.

Rick stammered, but she was already snatching up her purse.

“Oh, no. You dragged me into this mess, and you don’t even own the damn house?” She turned to me, her previous arrogance completely gone. Just humiliation.

“I’m out of here,” she muttered, stomping toward the door.

Rick scrambled after her. “Babe, wait—”

The door slammed shut.

For the first time, Rick looked nervous. He turned back to me. “Listen, kid—”

I raised a hand. “Don’t call me kid.”

He sighed, rubbing his face. “Alright, look. We can work something out.” He gestured vaguely around the room. “I’ve been here for a year. That has to count for something.”

Mr. Thompson pushed up his glasses. “It does. You’ve been unlawfully occupying private property. If you don’t leave voluntarily, the owner can press charges for trespassing.”

Rick swallowed.

“Pressing charges?” I repeated, tilting my head. “That’s an option?”

Rick’s eyes widened. “Whoa, no need to go that far.”

A knock sounded at the door. This time, I didn’t have to move—Mr. Thompson did. He opened it to reveal two uniformed officers.

“Sir,” one of them addressed Rick. “You have 24 hours to vacate.”

Rick dragged a hand down his face, glancing between the officers and me. “And where am I supposed to go?”

I shrugged. “Not my concern.”

The officer stepped forward. “Sir, I suggest you start packing.”

Rick didn’t argue.

That night, I lay in bed, listening to drawers opening, boxes shifting, bags dragging. I thought I’d feel relief, triumph, or anger.

Instead, I felt nothing.

I must have dozed off because when I opened my eyes, the house was still.

For the first time in a year, the house was mine.

I walked to the mantle, running my fingers over my mother’s picture. I had found it shoved away, hidden beneath Rick’s junk.

“I did it, Mom,” I whispered.

Some mistake kindness for weakness. But standing up for myself? That’s how I reclaimed my power.