Title: Ellie’s Return
When Ellie’s father died, she thought the hardest thing she’d face was grief. But grief wasn’t the only thing waiting for her. Betrayal hit harder than anything else. Thrown out of her own home by a woman who never truly cared for her, Ellie made one desperate phone call. But on the other end of that call wasn’t just comfort — it was power. And by the next morning, everything changed in ways she could never have imagined.
When my mom died, I was just ten years old. My dad stepped up. He really, really tried.
He made French toast every Sunday, even when he burned it. He wrote silly little notes and tucked them into my lunchbox — things like, “Don’t forget to smile, superstar!” or “The world needs your magic.” I’d roll my eyes at them, but deep down, they meant everything.
Sometimes, I’d catch him crying late at night, standing alone in the kitchen, staring at a photo of Mom. He thought I didn’t notice. But I always did.
He was broken… but still mine.
Then, when I was 14, Cheryl walked into our lives like a perfume ad in a fancy magazine — sweet-smelling, fake, and headache-inducing. She smiled, sure, but her smile disappeared the moment Dad looked away. To him, she was radiant. To me, she was frost dressed in silk.
I tried to like her. I really did. For Dad.
Because he deserved happiness.
But Cheryl’s kindness always came with a price. And no matter how hard I tried… I was never enough to earn it.
Five years later, Dad was gone. A sudden heart attack. No warning. No chance to say goodbye.
I was just 19 — barely out of high school, unsure about everything. I hadn’t even celebrated my birthday, which had come just a week after the funeral. What was there to celebrate? I had no parents, no plan, no idea how to even schedule my own dentist appointment, and now… no home either.
The funeral was barely over when Cheryl made her move. She turned my childhood home into her kingdom. She threw away Dad’s old magazines, replaced family pictures with her own smug selfies, and filled the air with her awful perfume again.
One morning, I caught her outside, scrubbing Dad’s name off the mailbox like it was dirt she couldn’t stand.
She saw me. Didn’t even flinch.
“Eleanor,” she said, her voice sharp like an icicle, “you’re not exactly family anymore, are you? Time to move out.”
I wanted to scream. But what was the point?
So, I packed a duffel bag. Just the basics — a few shirts, jeans, underwear, my old boots, my toothbrush. I took my guitar, because it was the only thing that still felt like home. I passed the coat rack, where Dad’s scarf still hung. I reached out… but I couldn’t touch it.
That night, I curled up on my best friend Katie’s couch.
“You can stay as long as you want, Ellie,” she whispered, wrapping me in a blanket and placing a glass of water on the table. “My home is your home.”
We didn’t talk about Cheryl. We didn’t have to.
Lying awake in the dark, I stared at the ceiling fan, my hands locked on my stomach like they were holding in all the sadness. My grief wasn’t loud — it was heavy. Like wet cement in my chest.
Before I fell asleep, I made a call. One call.
To Janine — my dad’s older sister. My aunt.
She picked up right away. I don’t even remember what I said. I just know there were a few sharp gasps, and then silence. Not the empty kind. The listening kind.
Then she said in a firm, calm voice:
“I’ll take care of it, darling. Are you okay with Katie, or do I need to come get you tonight?”
“I’m okay,” I whispered. “But… I need help. Please.”
“You have it,” she replied. “Go back tomorrow morning. Get the rest of your things. I’ll meet you there.”
The next morning, I pulled up to the house I’d lived in since the day I was born. The chipped front steps. The crooked birdfeeder Dad and I painted together — the one we splattered more paint on ourselves than the wood.
But something was off.
Parked outside were five black SUVs, gleaming and serious. Two men in suits stood by the door. One checked his watch. The other stood so still I thought he was a statue — until he blinked.
Was Cheryl keeping me out? Did she really call security?
I stepped out of the car, heart pounding, and rang the bell.
Cheryl opened the door. Her skin looked pale, and her smile was frozen on her face like a glitching robot.
“Oh! You’re here!” she chirped, too brightly. “I was just about to call you, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart? Since when?
“I just came to get my things,” I said slowly, eyes narrowing. “What’s going on?”
Before she could answer, Aunt Janine appeared from the hallway. She looked like a storm in heels — sharp gray suit, hair neat, folder in hand, and an expression that said she didn’t come to play.
“Perfect timing,” she said. “Come in. We’re just about to clear things up. Right, Cheryl?”
Cheryl’s mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air.
Inside, two lawyers sat at the dining table. One was older, reading papers calmly. The other flipped through legal pads like he could do it in his sleep.
“This is ridiculous!” Cheryl hissed, pacing. “You can’t just walk in and—”
“Sit,” Janine snapped. “Stop talking. You’ve already said enough.”
Cheryl sat. Barely.
I stood by the wall, confused, anxious, lost.
“What is this?” I asked, almost afraid of the answer.
Janine turned to me. Her expression softened.
“Your father never added Cheryl to the house deed,” she said. “He put the house — and the land — into a trust. In your name. Just before your 18th birthday. He never told you because… he thought he had time.”
I froze. “Wait… The house is mine?”
Memories flooded back. My 18th birthday. Dad smiling proudly. Telling me he was glad I was taking a gap year, that I deserved rest and time.
And in the background… he was protecting me.
“That’s absurd!” Cheryl barked. “Thomas would never do that without telling me!”
The lawyer slid a folder across the table. “Certified trust document. You were allowed temporary residence. But now that the legal heir has revoked permission, you must vacate immediately.”
“You can’t do this!” Cheryl shouted, standing.
“You have one hour to collect your personal items,” the lawyer said coldly. “After that, anything left will be considered abandoned.”
The air felt electric. I could barely breathe.
“Who are those men outside?” I whispered to Janine.
“Private security,” she said. “Old friend of mine. I didn’t trust Cheryl to leave quietly.”
Of course she didn’t.
Cheryl stomped upstairs, muttering curses under her breath.
“Be quick!” Janine called after her.
She tried slamming the bedroom door, but one of the security men opened it calmly, watching her every move.
I stood in the kitchen, hands on the counter, remembering Dad’s laughter when he burned the pancakes.
“They’re crispy, Ellie,” he had said, chuckling. “With whipped cream, they’ll be perfect.”
47 minutes later, Cheryl came down with two overstuffed suitcases. Her face blotchy, her jaw clenched. She looked like she wanted to say something cruel. Or maybe fake a tearful goodbye.
But she didn’t.
She just shook her head… and walked out.
One of the black SUVs followed her silently down the street.
I stood at the doorway, watching.
Aunt Janine handed me a glass of water. We sat together at the kitchen table.
“Are you alright, darling?” she asked.
“I think so,” I said, not quite sure.
“I miss your mom,” she murmured. “Especially that pecan pie of hers. I’m awful at baking… but maybe we could try?”
I smiled. “Dad kept her recipe book. It’s under the kettle.”
We found it. We baked. It wasn’t perfect. But it was ours.
“I always hated her,” Janine said out of nowhere. “Cheryl, I mean. The moment I met her, my gut told me no. But your dad… maybe he just didn’t want to be lonely.”
I stirred the batter and whispered, “Why didn’t he tell me about the trust?”
“Because Cheryl would’ve twisted it. He didn’t want you defending what was already yours. He trusted me to protect it… and you.”
Tears welled in my eyes. “Thank you. You saved my home.”
She squeezed my hand.
“You’re Eleanor. Named after the strongest woman I knew — your grandmother. You were never going to stay down for long.”
That night, I slept in my old room.
I didn’t unpack. I just wandered the house barefoot, letting the creaks and smells wrap around me like a hug.
In Dad’s closet, his plaid shirts still hung neatly. I buried my face in his fall jacket. It still smelled like him. Cedar. Coffee. Mornings.
I didn’t cry.
I just… remembered.
Back in my room, I picked up my guitar. I strummed the song I wrote after his funeral. The chords came back like magic.
It wasn’t perfect. Neither was I.
But the silence around me didn’t feel like loss anymore.
It felt like healing.
It felt like home.