I sat in the car a moment longer, watching the house that once seemed like my parents’ “success.” To them, it was home; to me, it had been a foreclosure waiting to happen. I’d quietly bought their debt months ago. Legally, irrevocably, the house belonged to me.
Today was Lily’s birthday. My two-year-old daughter sat in the back seat, calm but observant. I carried her and the gifts inside.
My father, Frank, and sister Karen wasted no time mocking the presents—tablets, sensory toys, anything meant for Lily. My mother, Linda, cut cake for herself, Karen, and Frank—nothing for Lily. Words like vegetable and broken were thrown casually, cruelty disguised as authority.
Something inside me went still. I stood, calm, and said, “Your house?”
“Yes,” Linda spat.
I smiled. “Not the police,” I said into my phone. “Asset Protection. Vacate the occupants.”
Silence fell. They had laughed at a child’s pain—but now they understood. I lifted Lily, turned, and walked out of the house I owned, leaving them to face the consequences of years of cruelty.