“Clear your stuff off MY lawn before I call the cops!”
After my father passed away, my daughter-in-law heartlessly threw all our family belongings outside, insisting she had inherited the house. But just moments later, my son arrived, and karma struck back.
When Dad’s lawyer called about the will reading, I was deep in moving boxes, sorting through decades of memories. Unable to face the lawyer’s office, I asked my son, Matt, to attend in my place.
“Of course, Mom,” he said. “Need help sorting Grandad’s things?”
“I’ve got it, but stop by later—there might be something special you’d like to keep,” I replied.
I assumed the will reading would be straightforward. I was so wrong.
At the nursing home, the antiseptic smell mixed with fading flowers tightened my throat. A young nurse handed me a plain, worn box of Dad’s belongings—his sweater, Bible, and well-loved mystery novels.
Reality sank in as I turned to leave.
