When Mrs. Yarrow, my dad’s longtime neighbor, called to complain about tenants in his house, I was stunned—it had been empty since he passed away unexpectedly a year earlier.
My heart pounding, I rushed an hour to Dad’s modest two-bedroom home. I pulled up to see three beat-up sedans in the driveway, the door flung open, and bass-heavy music blaring. Beer cans littered the lawn, the porch was stained, and Dad’s rocking chair was replaced with a cheap plastic one.
Then I saw Nate’s Honda in the garage—one of my husband Phil’s buddies. My voice froze. Phil had taken my father’s home—my only living memory of him—and turned it into a party pad for his friends.
While grieving, I’d clung to Dad’s house like a lifeline—where he taught me to ride a bike and comforted me in teen heartbreak. And Phil had not only betrayed that memory, he’d profited from it. His recent buying sprees and mysterious extra cash finally made sense.
I couldn’t go in. I sat in my car, fists clenched, heart racing. I needed my husband to feel the pain I felt—so I called Nate. I offered him a deal: keep the place rent-free for one more month if he helped me teach Phil a lesson.
The next morning, I watched Phil at breakfast phone in hand. Then Nate called him, panicked, claiming Dad’s house was on fire—electrical issue, flames erupting, fire department en route. Phil bolted from the room in terror.
Then I called Phil. Calmly, I told him I was heading to the house to show it to potential buyers. He freaked out—accusing me of selling the house. But I lied and showed up, ready. I fully expected chaos—but he vanished. Ignored calls. Tenants moved out overnight. He ran.
By the weekend, I returned to scrub the porch, restore Dad’s chair, reclaim every inch. Each sweep, each wipe, pieced me back together.
Three days later, I sat on those restored porch steps, looking at Dad’s swing. For the first time in a year, I felt peace.
Phil served divorce papers days later—I felt no sadness, only clarity. He could keep our shared home—I’d gladly traded it to preserve what mattered most: the memory of my dad.