I Lost Everything—Until Karma Pulled Up in a Limo

When my parents died suddenly, I was nineteen and alone in a house that still smelled like my mother’s baking. Grief came in fragments—police lights, a will reading, and my Aunt Dina in a red dress smiling through crocodile tears. Minutes later the lawyer announced that my childhood home now belonged to her. I could barely breathe as she ordered me to pack my bags and be gone within twenty-four hours.

The next morning I stood on the porch with two suitcases and my mother’s dying peace lily, watching Dina sip mimosas on the couch that used to be ours. That’s when a black limousine pulled up and a man in a gray suit stepped out—my long-lost Uncle Mike. He’d seen Dina’s gloating post online and started digging. Within minutes two police cars joined him, and Mike handed over a folder thick with evidence: forged signatures, fake lawyer, bank records—the works. Dina’s smirk vanished as the officers clicked the cuffs.

Three months later, a judge confirmed what we already knew: the will was fake, the house was mine, and Dina’s new address was a one-bedroom over a vape shop. The day I moved back in, sunlight poured through the kitchen windows as if my parents were welcoming me home.