Transferred. The word hung in the air, its implications slowly sinking in.“To Sheila Thompson,” the notary concluded, looking directly at me.

There was a moment of stunned silence, followed by an outburst of protests and accusations from my mother and Emma. Their faces were pale, voices raised in disbelief and anger.

I stayed silent, letting them exhaust their outrage. When they finally quieted, I spoke softly but firmly. “Dad wanted to ensure the house stayed in the family, and I promised him it would.”

They had thrown me out, but now the tables had turned. It was my decision whether they stayed or left. I could have retaliated, could have let bitterness guide me. But standing there, I realized I didn’t need vengeance. I had something far more valuable: the power to choose kindness.

“I’ll let you stay,” I said, meeting their eyes. “As long as you respect my terms.”

Their surprise was palpable. “Why?” Emma whispered, confusion in her eyes.

“Because despite everything, we’re still family,” I replied.

In that moment, I felt the weight of the past lift from my shoulders. I had found my peace, not through retribution, but through forgiveness. And in doing so, I