“Clear your junk off MY lawn!” Jessica shrieked the moment I returned from collecting Dad’s belongings from the nursing home. Shocked, I found our family’s memories strewn carelessly across the yard. She waved a fake will and claimed she’d inherited the house.
I was too heartbroken to fight—but my son Matt showed up minutes later, demanding answers.
Jessica proudly announced she wanted a divorce, blaming us for never accepting her. She called me elitist and him spineless, her rage exposing bitterness long hidden.
While she gloated, I secretly phoned Dad’s lawyer. His calm voice revealed everything: the will she held was fake. It was a trap—Dad’s final test to reveal her true nature.
I laughed, tears of relief flooding my face.
Jessica’s smug mask shattered. She begged Matt to forgive her, but he refused. “You want out? You’ve got it.”
She left in disgrace.
Matt and I quietly gathered the memories she’d tried to discard. I realized Dad’s greatest legacy wasn’t the house—it was the clarity he gifted us about who truly belonged in our lives.
