My mother’s cruelty didn’t start that night. It had been simmering my whole life.
By nineteen, I had mistaken attention for love and ended up pregnant. Hannah’s father left soon after. Nursing school and motherhood nearly broke me, but I kept going. You don’t stop when you’re the only person your child can count on.
Three years ago, when my father’s health began to fail, my mother called. “He needs help,” she said. “You’re a nurse.”
So Hannah and I moved back into the house I grew up in. For a time, it almost felt like family again. I managed his care, and for once, my mother’s sharp edges softened — at least when others were watching.
When Dad passed away, she changed overnight. The grief lasted less than the funeral flowers. Within days she was rearranging furniture, painting rooms, and humming like she’d been waiting for this reset. My father’s bedroom became a playroom for Brittany’s kids. His books vanished. His photo disappeared from the hallway.
One night, I overheard her whispering to Brittany, “It makes sense for you to move in. Rent’s too high anyway. Elena will leave soon — she was only here for your father.”
That was when I realized: I wasn’t family. I was an inconvenience.
The Letter My Mother Never Expected
A few days later, I received a call from my father’s lawyer, Jonathan Wells. “Just some paperwork to finalize,” he said.
When I arrived, he slid a folder across the desk. “Your father transferred the house into a living trust before his death,” he explained. “It’s in your name — for you and your daughter.”
I didn’t tell my mother. Not yet. I wanted to believe she might come to her senses. But five days later, she proved me wrong.
She changed the locks.
