When my father passed away, he left me more than a house—he left me memories, comfort, and a sense of belonging. Keeping the home he loved felt like a way to keep him close, so I poured my heart into preserving it. At first, I tried to hold our family together in that familiar space, even when tensions surfaced after the inheritance was revealed.
When my mother and brother moved in without asking, I told myself it was temporary. I wanted to believe that sharing the house would help us heal, not divide us. But slowly, the warmth of home began to fade.
The house filled with noise and expectations, while respect quietly disappeared. I found myself carrying the responsibilities alone—cleaning, paying bills, and adjusting my life to meet everyone else’s needs. Any attempt to set boundaries was brushed aside with jokes or guilt.
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