AnnaMaria
“My key doesn’t work. It won’t go in. I think they changed the lock.”
“They?”
“Grandma… maybe Aunt Brittany.”
I rubbed my forehead. “They wouldn’t change the lock without telling me. Can you come home?”
“I tried,” she whispered. “No one’s answering.”
Abandoned in the Storm
Two hours later, my phone buzzed again. Four more missed calls. A text: Mom, I think they’re here. Please come.
My stomach dropped. I called her.
She was sobbing. “They won’t let me in. Grandma said we don’t live here anymore.”
I froze. “Are you safe?”
“I’m under the porch light. It’s still raining.”
“Stay right there. Don’t move. I’m leaving now.”
I didn’t ask permission. I grabbed my things, left work, and drove through the storm, adrenaline mixing with fear. By the time I pulled into the driveway, darkness had fallen.
Huddled on the porch, Hannah looked like a small, drenched figure in the rain. I scooped her up, shivering and apologizing as if it were her fault.
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” I said, my throat raw.
The Betrayal
Then the porch light flicked on. My mother appeared, wine glass in hand. “Elena,” she said, feigning surprise.
“You changed the locks.”
“We needed privacy,” she said coldly.
“You locked my daughter out in the rain.”
“She’s 11. We’ve decided you and Hannah don’t live here anymore. Less tension.”
I looked past her. Brittany leaned on the doorway, phone in hand, fake concern painted on her face.
I didn’t yell. I didn’t cry. I just said, “Understood.”
Years of Being Erased
This wasn’t new. Mom had always favored Brittany, her first daughter, over me. Dad had been gone most of the time, overworked and tired. When he died, she began erasing me and Hannah from the house almost immediately.
New furniture. New photos. Brittany’s family everywhere. A whispered plan to take over the home permanently. I overheard them:
“Elena probably won’t stay much longer. She was only here for your father.”
I felt a chill run through me.
The Secret Weapon
Three days after the lockout, Jonathan Wells, Dad’s lawyer, called. “Some paperwork to finalize,” he said.
Instead, he handed me a folder. The house had been placed in a living trust for me and Hannah. My mother’s name wasn’t on the deed.
Everything shifted from grief to action. Five days later, Mom changed the locks.
I didn’t sleep. I made calls. Jonathan confirmed the trust. He drafted notice. Twenty minutes later, it was ready.
Serving Justice
An hour later, we were parked outside the house. Jonathan handed Mom the papers. She rolled her eyes. But when she read the first line, her face drained. Brittany grabbed the papers, shouted, and chaos erupted. Jonathan walked back to the car. “Served,” he said.
The drive back was silent. Exhaustion, not triumph, settled over me.
Court and Eviction
Mom tried to fight it in court, claiming undue influence. But I had the police report of Hannah being locked out in the rain. “That’s neglect,” an officer said. The judge signed an emergency possession order within two days.
On eviction day, three cars were in the driveway. Deputies at the door. Mom and Brittany screamed, argued, tried to stop it. But the order was final. When their cars finally pulled away, I went inside alone. The house smelled like dust and perfume. The keys were in my hand. It was ours again.
Finally, Peace
That evening, Hannah ran through the rooms, her laughter filling the house.
“Are we moving again?” she asked.
“Home,” I said. And it finally felt like home.
Six months later, Mom and Brittany live together elsewhere, still in petty conflict. But Hannah and I? We garden, laugh, and live without fear. No new locks, no storms, no intrusions. Just peace.
