A year after my mother’s death, I returned home to find my own suitcases at the door. The house no longer smelled of her warmth, but of strangers and cheap perfume.

Inside, a woman lounged in my mother’s robe, sipping wine. “You’re back early,” she said. “I’m Tasha. Colin’s fiancée.”

Colin—my mother’s ex. I’d let him stay, honoring her dying wish.

“Where is Colin?” I asked.

“Out. He said you’d understand. We need the space now.”

“This is my home.”

She laughed. “Colin said it was his. A lawyer’s coming to sort it.”

“Good,” I replied, sitting. She grew uneasy.

Colin arrived, smug. “I knew you’d be reasonable.”

Then the doorbell rang.

The lawyer stepped in. “Colin, you have no legal claim. The house belongs solely to Mia.”

Tasha exploded. “You LIED?” She left, humiliated.

Colin stammered. “Maybe we can work something out?”

“Don’t call me kid,” I said. Officers arrived to enforce the eviction.

“Where will I go?” he asked.

“Not my problem.”

That night, the house began to feel like mine again. I touched my mother’s photo.

“I didn’t break my promise.”