Three years after my grandmother passed, I inherited her house. Six months ago, my dad remarried, and shortly after the wedding, he told me, “That house should’ve been mine.” Within days, he and his new wife moved in uninvited.
At first, I stayed silent, hoping to preserve our relationship. But it didn’t take long to see her overstepping—replacing pillows, curtains, towels, even my favorite couch and desk. Confrontations were useless; she claimed she was “just contributing” and accused me of being “territorial.”
I decided to fight quietly. When my dad was at work, I subtly undid her changes: crooked pictures, shuffled books, furniture slightly out of place. I moved my grandmother’s rocking chair, left her jewelry box open, and hid her reading glasses in odd spots.
Then one night, I draped my grandmother’s shawl over my shoulders and slowly walked past her. She screamed, insisted she’d seen a “woman” in the house, and left immediately.
By morning, she had moved out, convinced the house was haunted. I never yelled or fought—I just reminded her, subtly, whose home it really was.