The Summer Everything Shattered
That summer, my world collapsed—money gone, Dad gone, nowhere to run. And just when I needed family the most, my stepmother slapped a price tag on my survival.
I stood in my tiny rented apartment, staring at empty shelves, half-packed suitcases, and a mountain of boxes. For ten years, I had worked nonstop—no weekends, no breaks—saving every penny to open my dream: a cozy little bookstore café.
And then, just as I was about to step into that dream, my landlord doubled the rent. Overnight, I was homeless.
But losing my apartment wasn’t the worst of it.
Because days later, my Dad died.
And that was when everything truly broke.
My Raymond
I still called him that in my mind. Raymond. Not just “Dad.” He was my rock, my safe place. After Mom passed, it was just the two of us. I remember nights when I’d bury my face in my pillow, sobbing, and he’d sit on the edge of my bed, his voice steady.
“Hannah, look at me. You’re not alone. I’m here.”
He always knew how to calm me. He’d bring me books from the library, his eyes lighting up as he handed them to me.
“Found another story for you. Should we read it together?”
I’d nod, reaching for him. He’d stroke my hair and whisper, “You’re my little star, Hannah. All I have.”
I believed him.
Then Lydia came along.
The Stepmother Who Stole My Dad
“Raymond, I want us to be a family,” she’d said back then, smiling sweetly. “I’ll be like a second mom to Hannah.”
I looked her straight in the eyes and believed her.
And Chloe, her daughter, peeked out from behind her, grinning. “I’ll be like a sister to you! I promise!”
I wanted to believe that, too.
Raymond wrapped his arms around all three of us, his face glowing with hope.
But slowly, Lydia took over. After the wedding, she carried keys to every room in her pocket, like she owned the place. Chloe strutted around, eyeing my books with disdain.
“Hannah, why do you need so many books? You’ll never make money from them.”
When I left for college, Dad would call me late at night, whispering so Lydia wouldn’t hear.
“Hannah… you’ll always be my girl. They’re good people, but… I feel like a guest in my own house.”
“Dad…”
I could hear him swallowing his tears.
Years later, I sat on the floor of my crumbling life, surrounded by boxes, wondering if I’d ever done enough for him. If he was proud of me now, fighting so hard just to hold on.
“Alright, Hannah. Breathe.”
I needed to say goodbye to Dad. And I told myself I’d stay in his house—just for a little while. Just to catch my breath.
I knew Lydia wouldn’t like it. Chloe even less. To them, Raymond had just been a wallet—a kind heart they’d twisted with sweet words. But now he was gone. And I was left to face his “family” alone.
For a moment, I thought I still had a place to belong.
I had no idea Lydia had other plans.
The Funeral & the Trap
The funeral was suffocating—hot, sticky air pressing down as people droned on about how kind Raymond had been.
I watched Lydia dab her eyes with a perfectly folded tissue, her sobs just a little too loud. Chloe sniffled dramatically into her shoulder. I could almost see Dad rolling his eyes from beyond, leaning against his favorite oak tree, unimpressed by the show.
Hours later, we all gathered in the living room. Mr. Whitaker, the family lawyer, cleared his throat.
“Raymond left clear instructions. The house goes to Hannah.”
My heart lifted—until he flipped to the last page and frowned.
“However… there’s an addendum. The final decision about transferring the deed depends on… the good judgment of Lydia.”
My blood turned to ice.
“What does that mean?”
“It means,” Whitaker said carefully, “your father wanted certain conditions met. Lydia will decide the terms. You’ll need to agree to them.”
WHAT?
Raymond would never have done that. Not unless—
I turned to Lydia. Her eyes were wide, her voice dripping with fake sympathy.
“Of course, I’ll decide what’s fair for everyone.”
She leaned toward Whitaker. “We’ll have a family meeting. Then I’ll let you know our final decision.”
As soon as the door shut behind him, Lydia’s mask dropped.
“Alright, Hannah. Here’s how this is going to work.”
The grieving widow was gone. In her place stood a predator.
*”If you want this house—the one your father *wanted* you to have—you’ll buy Chloe an apartment. A nice one.”*
I choked. “With what money?”
She smiled, slow and cruel. “Don’t play dumb. You’ve been saving for years, haven’t you?”
“That money was for my café!”
“Oh, Hannah,” Chloe sighed, shaking her head. “Don’t be selfish. You’re the oldest. You should help the family.”
Family. The word tasted like poison.
“And if I don’t?”
Lydia’s smile sharpened. *”Then we *all* live here. And trust me… we’ll make sure it’s very uncomfortable for you.”*
I had no choice. My apartment was gone. Rent was impossible. And if I pulled my café deposit, I’d lose everything.
So I lied.
*”Fine. I’ll stay for now. We’re *family.* We’ll… work it out.”*
Lydia’s eyes gleamed. “Staying was the worst choice you could’ve made.”
Living in Hell
It was torture.
Every morning, Chloe blasted music, stomping around, laughing with her friends about “the spinster in the back room.” Lydia cooked just enough for two, smirking as she handed me burnt toast.
“Oh, you’re still here? There’s this if you want it.”
But then—they crossed the line.
I came home one day to find my room destroyed.
My clothes were thrown into the yard. My books—my treasures—were soaked in the rain. Dad’s old pictures, ruined.
Chloe leaned against the doorframe, chewing gum.
“Oops. We needed the space. You didn’t mind, right?”
I didn’t say a word.
That night, I dug through an old address book and found a number I hadn’t dialed in years.
Cynthia.
Lydia’s mother. The one person on earth Lydia hated more than me.
And the best part?
Cynthia had the right to live in that house too.
I dialed. She picked up on the second ring.
“Cynthia? It’s Hannah. Raymond’s daughter. I… need your help. And I think you might want mine, too.”
For the first time in weeks, I almost smiled.
If Lydia thought I was hard to live with?
She had no idea what was coming.
Revenge Served Cold (and Smoky)
The next morning, I woke up to screaming.
I bolted upright. What now?
Then I smelled it—herbs, smoke, something burning.
Cynthia.
By the time I reached the kitchen, Lydia was shrieking.
*”MOM! What the *hell* are you doing?!”*
Cynthia sat at the table like a queen, pajama pants tucked into fuzzy slippers, calmly burning sage on a metal tray.
“Good morning to you too, baby girl.”
Lydia’s face turned beet-red. “This stinks! You’re gonna burn the house down!”
Cynthia didn’t even glance up. “I’m cleansing the air. Raymond deserves peace, not all this screeching and backstabbing.”
*”I didn’t invite you here! This is *my* house!”*
I leaned against the doorframe. *”Actually… *I* invited her. She’s family too. Right?”*
Cynthia grinned. *”That’s right, honey. I’m *still* family.”*
Lydia’s jaw dropped.
Cynthia flicked ash onto the tray. *”Maybe I want to make sure my son-in-law’s memory stays clean. Lord knows he did more for me than *you* ever did.”*
“MOM! You always take everyone else’s side!”
Cynthia snapped her fingers. Chloe flinched.
*”Don’t start, sweetheart. I was on *your* side for years. And what did you do when Raymond was sick? You twisted everything to your advantage.”*
“I took care of him—”
Cynthia laughed. *”Oh, you *took care of him,* all right. I’ve still got that letter he gave me—the one where he begged me to hold onto his real will because he didn’t trust you.”*
My breath caught.
Cynthia pulled out a crumpled envelope, waving it like a victory flag.
*”You want to test me, baby girl? Take me to court. I’ll stand there and tell them *everything—how you shoved that fake will under his nose when he could barely hold a pen.”
Chloe whimpered. *”Mama, this is so unfair! Where are we supposed to *go?”
Cynthia leaned back, smirking. *”You’ve got your dad’s old place upstate, don’t you? The one you’re always bragging about? Needs a fresh coat of paint, but hey—plenty of room for *family bonding.“
Lydia’s nostrils flared. I shrugged.
*”You always said we should stick together as a family. So here we are. *Sticking.“
Cynthia cackled. “Pack your bags, Lydia.”
A House Finally at Peace
A few hours later, after slamming doors and screeching tires, the house fell silent.
Cynthia and I sat at the kitchen table, steaming mugs between us. She raised hers in a toast.
“To Raymond. And to strong girls who don’t let witches win.”
I laughed—really laughed—for the first time in weeks.
“To family.”
She winked. *”Now you can finally open that bookstore café. In *peace.“
I looked out the window. The yard looked just like it had when Dad was alive. And now, it would stay that way.
Maybe even better.
With Cynthia on my side, I knew I could finally chase my dream.
I glanced up at the sky and smiled.
Dad would’ve been proud.