… he knew Carla was digging for gold. He confessed that he’d overheard her on the phone with her sister, bragging about how she’d sell the house and spend his life insurance the moment he was gone.
“I won’t let her take your childhood home, Liv,” he had said, sliding a thick manila envelope across the table. “I’m transferring the deed to you. Today. It’s done. Legally, the house is ALREADY yours.”
He had sworn me to secrecy to avoid a fight with her while he was still alive, but he wanted to make sure I was safe.
Standing on that porch, staring at Carla’s hateful note, my tears dried up instantly. A cold, hard smile spread across my face. I didn’t bang on the door. I didn’t beg. I called the police.
When the officers arrived, Carla threw open the door, looking triumphant. “Finally! Officer, remove this trespasser! She’s refusing to leave MY property!”
She smirked at me, crossing her arms. “I told you, Olivia. You’re nothing but a guest.”
“Actually,” I said, my voice steady as I pulled the digital copy of the deed up on my phone and handed it to the officer. “I’m the owner. And Carla is the one trespassing. My father transferred the title to me three months ago. Here is the timestamped transfer and the registration.”
Carla’s face went from smug to ghostly pale in a split second. She snatched at the phone, but the officer held her back. He reviewed the documents, nodded, and turned to her.
“Ma’am, it looks like this residence belongs to Ms. Olivia. You have no legal standing here. You’ll need to vacate the premises immediately, or I’ll have to arrest you for trespassing.”
“That’s a lie! He wouldn’t!” Carla shrieked, looking around wildly. “My kids are supposed to move in tomorrow!”
“Not anymore,” I said, stepping past her to pick up my mom’s painting and my dog’s ashes from the floor. “And since you changed the locks on my house, I’ll need those keys. Now.”
Carla was escorted off the property in tears, clutching a trash bag of her clothes, while her “moving in” plans crumbled to dust. I walked inside, locked the door, and hung my mom’s painting back on the wall where it belonged.
Dad was right. Carla really had miscalculated. She thought she’d buried me, but she forgot that my dad had already given me the shovel.
Would you like me to generate another variation of the ending, perhaps one involving a hidden will or a lawyer stepping in?
