When my dad died, I was heartbroken. But I also felt a quiet sense of purpose when I found out he’d left me the family home — 90% of everything — while my mom and brother got small amounts. I knew he trusted me to care for the place he’d loved so much. For a while, I lived there alone, holding onto the memories. Then my mom moved in “temporarily.” Then my brother Tyler and his wife Gwen showed up — with eight suitcases — announcing they were moving in because “rent is a waste.” Mom encouraged it without even asking me. Suddenly, my house felt like theirs. They treated me like a maid: no rent,
no help, just constant mess and demands. When Gwen got pregnant, things got worse. I became their errand runner — waking up at 5 a.m. to fetch McMuffins because “the baby was craving them.” They used her pregnancy to justify everything — from eating my food to stealing my cupcakes. I kept quiet — until the night I made my favorite mushroom pasta, left it on the counter while I took a call, and came back to find Gwen halfway through it. “I was hungry,”
