After Mr. Harrison passed away, Cynthia thought the worst was over. But she couldn’t have imagined that Mrs. Davies and her adult children would turn her season of mourning into something even more painful. Fortunately, Mrs. Miller arrived—with the one thing they never saw coming.
When Cynthia’s parents divorced, she stayed with her father.
It wasn’t because she didn’t love her mother—she did—but Mrs. Miller was relocating out of state. Cynthia didn’t want to leave her school, her friends, or the bedroom that held her childhood memories. Both of her parents understood and respected her choice.
When Mr. Harrison later married Mrs. Davies, Cynthia did her best to adjust. Mrs. Davies didn’t.
She merely tolerated Cynthia. Her smiles never reached her eyes, and her words always had an edge.
Like when she’d say, “You left your plate in the sink again,” in a sugary tone that barely disguised the message: You’re not welcome here.
Her grown children, Leo and Chloe, weren’t any better. They’d breeze into the house like they owned it—eating Mr. Harrison’s food, blasting the TV, and throwing judgmental glances at Cynthia like she was some unwanted stray their father never got around to getting rid of.
But Mr. Harrison always stood up for her.
He never let them walk all over Cynthia. When Mrs. Davies snapped, he defused it. When Leo got mouthy, he shut him down. He was the shield between Cynthia and the chaos—and because of that, the house still felt like home.
Until he died.
A sudden heart attack on a Tuesday morning. The funeral felt like a blur—Cynthia drifted through it in shock, barely hearing the condolences.
Everyone said the same empty things: “He was a good man,” “He loved you so much,” “He’s in a better place.” Cynthia wanted to scream.
She couldn’t bring herself to go back to the house that night. There were too many ghosts, too much tension. Instead, she stayed at her best friend Sarah’s house just a few blocks away. Sarah’s parents welcomed her with open arms, understanding she needed space to breathe.
The next morning, Cynthia walked home.
Something felt off the moment she stepped onto the driveway. The porch was crowded—with her belongings.
Boxes filled with her clothes, books, even her favorite picture of her and her father fishing when she was eight, were piled haphazardly outside. A sweater she’d thought was lost dangled out of one box like forgotten trash.
Confused, Cynthia dropped her bag and ran up the steps.
The door was locked.
She jiggled the knob, knocked hard, and then harder. Eventually, it opened.
Mrs. Davies stood there, arms crossed, wearing a satisfied smirk.
Behind her, Leo leaned against the wall, smug. Chloe sat on the stairs, scrolling through her phone without interest.
“You didn’t really think you were staying here, did you?” Mrs. Davies said, head tilted. “This house is for family.”
Cynthia’s mouth opened, but no sound came out.
“This was your father’s home,” Mrs. Davies continued. “He’s gone. So now, as his wife, it belongs to me—and my family. I suggest you move on.”
Cynthia’s heart dropped. She stared at the woman who had just buried her husband and now stood at the door like a bouncer, tossing his daughter out.
“You’re kicking me out?” she whispered.
Chloe finally looked up and laughed. Leo chuckled along with her.
“You have no right,” Cynthia said, her voice cracking.
Mrs. Davies laughed coldly. “Sweetheart, I have every right. Now take your things and go. Or I’ll call the police.”
Then the door slammed in her face.
Cynthia knew she couldn’t risk a confrontation. With trembling hands, she grabbed what she could—her backpack, a tote of clothes, and the fishing photo—though her fingers were shaking so badly she dropped the frame once.
Across the street, their neighbor Mrs. Thompson watched from her porch. She quietly approached.
“If you need a place for the night, my couch is open,” she offered softly.
Cynthia nodded, dazed. She should’ve called Sarah, but everything felt unreal.
That night, curled on Mrs. Thompson’s couch, Cynthia stared at the ceiling, feeling hollow. The porch light barely reached the living room, and everything felt unfamiliar.
Then she picked up her phone.
Mrs. Miller hadn’t been able to attend the funeral—work, or at least that’s what Cynthia had been told. But now, there was no one else to call.
“Mom?” Cynthia’s voice cracked the second she spoke.
“Cynthia? What’s wrong?”
“It’s Mrs. Davies… she changed the locks. She said the house is hers and kicked me out.”
“What?!”
“I know you couldn’t come before, and I don’t want to bother you, but… I’m at Mrs. Thompson’s. I guess I could take a bus to you tomorrow—”
“No,” her mother interrupted. “Stay right there. I’ll be there in a few hours.”
She hung up and drove through the night.
At dawn, Cynthia heard her mother’s car in the driveway. She ran out barefoot and fell into her arms.
For a long moment, neither said a word. Then Mrs. Miller stepped back and looked her daughter in the eye.
“There’s something you need to know. Something your father didn’t want you—or Mrs. Davies—to know.”
Cynthia frowned. “What are you talking about?”
Her mother took a breath. “I didn’t come to the funeral because… of why we separated. I cheated on him, Cynthia. We ended things badly. He wouldn’t have wanted me there.”
Cynthia stared at her, stunned.
“But I’m telling you now because… I tried to make amends in the only way I could. After the divorce, I paid off the mortgage. The house was never in his name again—it was in mine. I let him stay, told him it would always be his and yours.”
Cynthia’s eyes widened.
“Yes, he accepted that. Even after everything. And he planned to leave it to you.”
“You’re saying Mrs. Davies doesn’t actually own the house?”
“She doesn’t. I brought the deed. I can prove it.”
From the porch, Mrs. Thompson called out gently, “Come inside, girls. Sounds like you’ve got an eviction to sort through.”
Cynthia finally smiled. “Okay.”
They waited until the weekend, when Mrs. Davies and her kids went away.
Saturday morning, Mrs. Miller called a locksmith.
Cynthia stood on the porch as the man changed the locks. A moving company arrived soon after to box up every item belonging to Mrs. Davies, Leo, and Chloe—and neatly placed them on the front lawn.
By early Monday morning, Cynthia heard a car pull into the driveway. She didn’t need to look to know what was coming.
“What the HELL is this?!” Mrs. Davies’ voice shrieked from outside.
Cynthia peeked through the curtain. There they were—Mrs. Davies in slippers, Leo pacing angrily, and Chloe bawling as she collapsed onto a box.
“This is OUR house!” Mrs. Davies screamed. “Open this door RIGHT NOW!”
Mrs. Miller calmly stepped outside, holding the deed.
“Oh,” she said, her voice calm. “There’s been a little mistake. This isn’t your house.”
“What?!”
“It’s mine,” she said, holding up the document. “My ex-husband never owned it. So when you kicked my daughter out, you had no legal right. I’ve simply reversed the mistake.”
Leo tried to shove past her, but Mrs. Miller blocked him. “You take one more step, and I call the police.”
Within minutes, someone else had already called the cops. An officer arrived and heard both sides.
In the end, Mrs. Davies had no claim. The house was never hers.
They were told to collect their belongings and leave.
Cynthia and her mother watched through the window as they drove off, defeated.
Inside, they collapsed on the couch.
“You okay?” Mrs. Miller asked.
Cynthia nodded. “Yeah. Better.”
Her mom smiled. “Once you turn eighteen—in just a few weeks—we’ll transfer the deed to your name. I want you to have security they can never take.”
Cynthia didn’t respond with words. She just hugged her mother tightly.
The past could wait. For now, she was safe. She could finally grieve her father in peace.
At home.