At Dinner, My Sister Drenched Me In Wine, Shouting: “You Have Until Sunrise To Get Out Of My House!” My Parents Cheered Her On. I Just Smiled, Dropped A Key On The Table, And Replied: “THEN YOU HAVE 60 SECONDS…”

“So I formed an LLC—Silver Lining Properties—and purchased the house from the bank. Cash offer. They were delighted to avoid the hassle of a full foreclosure auction.”

“You bought our house?” my father whispered.

“I bought Lauren’s house,” I corrected. “The one she destroyed with debt. The same house she just ordered me to leave by sunrise. Rather ironic, wouldn’t you say?”

Lauren found her voice again, shrill and desperate.

“This is illegal. You can’t just buy someone’s house out from under them.”

“Actually, I can. And I did. Everything was completely legal and above board. In fact, I’ve been more than generous. I’ve been letting you live here for the past month without paying rent while I documented your behavior. Every cruel word, every hostile action—all of it building my case for Grandmother Eleanor’s will provisions.”

I stood up, walking to the window that overlooked the backyard where we’d played as children. The swing set was still there, rusty now, a monument to a childhood where Lauren had always claimed the good swing and relegated me to the broken one.

“Do you want to know what really sealed my decision to buy this house?” I asked, not turning around. “It was Mrs. Patterson from next door. She told me about all the times she’s seen you throwing my belongings onto the lawn when I’ve tried to visit. About how you’ve been telling the neighbors I’m mentally unstable and dangerous.”

Mrs. Patterson was eighty-three years old, sharp as a tack, and had lived next door since before we were born. She’d been like a surrogate grandmother to me, sneaking me cookies when my family forgot to feed me dinner as punishment for some imagined slight.

“That old bat needs to mind her own business,” Lauren spat.

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