I came back home to lay my grandmother to rest. After the funeral, my father pressed a pen into my hand. “Sign this—it’s just inheritance paperwork.” As I leaned closer, I noticed my stepmother’s fingers shaking, something concealed in her clenched palm. She smiled sweetly and murmured, “Be a good girl… just sign.” A chill ran through me. I set the pen down and returned her smile. “I think I’ll read it carefully first.” Because in that instant, I understood the truth—the funeral hadn’t been the main event. It was only a dry run for what they were planning to do tonight.

I came home to bury my grandmother, and I thought grief would be the hardest part.
The funeral was quiet, heavy with the kind of sadness that makes even distant relatives pretend they loved her more than they did. My grandmother had been the only person in that house who ever looked at me like I was enough. She wrote letters. She remembered birthdays. She defended me when my father dismissed me like an inconvenience.
So standing by her grave, listening to the final prayers, I felt hollow—but also oddly clear.

When the last guest left and the house emptied, my father didn’t offer comfort.
He handed me a pen.

“Sign,” he said, already holding out a folder. “It’s just inheritance paperwork.”

The words were too smooth. Too rehearsed.

My stepmother, Lauren, stood beside him wearing black like it was a costume. She smiled softly, the kind of smile meant to calm a child right before a needle.

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