As Dad’s health declined, I watched from the sidelines as Mom and Emma carried on as if I didn’t exist. When he passed, their coldness was almost comforting—predictable, constant.
At the family home after the funeral, the door slammed in my face, my belongings tossed on the lawn. “This house is ours now,” they said. I said nothing and left.
A week later, at the notary, the truth came out: the house had already been legally transferred to me. Mom and Emma froze in disbelief. “It belongs entirely to Sheila,” the lawyer said.
I simply smiled. The house—and my voice—were finally mine. No longer invisible, I had reclaimed my life, my inheritance, and my freedom.
