Moving on after losing a loved one is never easy. Sometimes, I still hear my hubby George’s voice in the back of my head. I wake up clutching his favorite shirt, his scent lingering on the fabric. But while I was still grieving his loss, what my stepdaughter did… it completely shattered me…

I’m Mariana, 57 years old, and I was married to the most wonderful man, George, for 25 years. He had a daughter, Susan, 34, from a previous marriage.

Our relationship with Susan used to be fine. She called me “Mom” and filled the void in my heart of not having a child of my own. I didn’t see her as “someone else’s” child. I loved her as my own daughter, you know.

When Susan got married to the man of her choice, George and I were overjoyed. But after that, everything went downhill when George was diagnosed with terminal cancer.

Susan’s visits dwindled from weekly to monthly, then stopped altogether. She barely came to see her father, occasionally calling me to ask about his condition.

One day, she asked me something that tore me apart. “How many more days does he have left to live?”

I gripped the phone tightly, my voice trembling. “Susan, your father isn’t some product with an expiry date.”

“I just want to know, Mom. I’m busy, you know that… I can’t be visiting often,” she replied.

“Busy?” I echoed, disbelief coloring my tone. “Too busy to see your dying father?”

She sighed heavily. “Look, I’ll try to visit soon, okay?”

But that “soon” never came.

Then, the day I dreaded finally arrived. The hospital called, informing me that George had passed peacefully.

I was shattered, barely able to stand as the news sunk in. My George, my beloved George, was gone.

To my shock and disappointment, Susan didn’t even attend his funeral. When I called her, she had an excuse ready.

“You know that I just delivered my baby last month, Mom,” she said, her voice oddly detached. “The doctors advised against long travel due to some health issues.”

I swallowed hard, fighting back tears. “But Susan, it’s your father’s funeral. Don’t you want to see him one last time?”

“I can’t risk my baby’s health,” she replied curtly. “You understand, right?”

I didn’t, not really, but I nodded silently, forgetting she couldn’t see me. “Of course, sweetie. Take care.”

As I hung up and sat near my husband’s coffin, I couldn’t shake off the feeling that something had fundamentally changed between us.

Six months after George’s passing, I was startled by a loud knock on my door. Opening it, I found Susan and her husband Doug, accompanied by a stern-looking man in a suit.

Susan barged in without a greeting. “Mom, we need you to sign some papers.”

I blinked, confused. “What papers?”

Doug thrust a stack of documents at me, including a blank sheet. “Just sign these. It’s for transferring all the assets into our names.”

“Excuse me?” I stepped back, my heart racing. “What are you talking about?”

Susan rolled her eyes. “Dad’s assets, Mom. We’re here to claim what’s rightfully ours.”

Their audacity left me speechless. If only George had left a will, I wouldn’t be in this mess. I would have ensured my daughter was taken care of before she even knew there was a problem.

But this? Their tone and audacity irked me. How could they think I’d just stand by and let them walk all over me?

“No,” I said firmly, finding my voice. “I want you to leave my house right now. And don’t you dare come back with such awful demands.”

Susan’s face contorted with anger. “You can’t do this! You’re not even my REAL MOTHER!”

Her words hit me like a bag of bricks. I stumbled back, tears welling in my eyes. “Susan, how can you say that? After all these years?”

“Just stick to your boundaries and pass on my father’s assets to me,” she spat.

I felt my blood pressure rising, my vision blurring with tears and rage. “Get out of my house!” I shouted. “Your father would be heartbroken if he knew what a greedy daughter you’ve become. I’m glad my George didn’t live to see this day.”

Susan launched into a tirade, her words becoming a blur of insults and demands.

“How dare you, Mariana? George was my father, not yours, and you have no right to anything here!” she yelled. “You think you can wiggle your way in here and take what’s ours? Over my dead body!”

That did it. Tears sprang from my eyes. Susan… the daughter my George and I had raised practically stabbed me with her words alone.

But no, I wouldn’t let them break me. Not me. Not Mariana.

“This is my home, and you’re not welcome! Take your greed and get out before I call the cops!” I retorted.

“Do you have any idea what you’re putting us through? You’re nothing but a greedy vulture, circling around for scraps my father left behind!” Susan barked.

“If you had an ounce of decency, you’d leave right now! But clearly, that’s asking too much!” I snapped.

“You think a few harsh words will scare us? Just sign the damn papers, lady!” Doug yelled at me.

I felt cornered by the daughter I’d loved and raised. I was furious and heartbroken.

When they refused to leave, my neighbor, hearing the commotion, rushed over. “You heard her! This isn’t your place, and you’re not welcome. Move it!” he physically escorted Susan and Doug out.

As they left, Susan’s furious voice echoed back. “This isn’t over, Mariana! You’ll regret this!”

I slumped onto the couch, my heart aching. Where had all that love we once shared vanished? How could greed twist my daughter into someone I barely recognized?

With trembling hands, I reached for George’s framed photo on the side table. Tears blurred my vision as I traced his smiling face.

“Oh, George,” I whispered, my voice cracking. “Why didn’t you take me with you? I’m lost without you.”

A sob escaped my throat as I clutched the frame to my chest. “Our daughter… our sweet Susan… she’s a stranger to me now. What happened to the little girl who used to call me Mom?”

The silence of the empty house pressed in around me, amplifying my grief. I rocked back and forth, the photo cool against my tear-stained cheeks.

“I miss you so much, honey,” I choked out. “I don’t know how to face this alone.”

Susan’s calls didn’t stop after that. Day and night, my phone buzzed with her angry messages and voicemails. Finally, exhausted and desperate for peace, I decided to give in.

I met with my lawyer, determined to give Susan what she wanted and be done with it. But there was something neither of us knew.

A week later, Susan stormed into my home again, her face red with fury.

“HOW DID YOU DO THIS?” she screamed. “I only get $3,000 and an old car? What about everything else?”

I stared at her, a small smile forming on my face. “What are you talking about?”

Susan waved a paper in my face. “This! This pathetic inheritance you told the lawyer to give me! Where’s everything else?”

I took the paper from her, a small smile dancing on my lips. According to this, George only had $3,000 in his bank account, an old Mustang, and some debts.

“What about the house? The SUV? Dad’s old farmhouse?” Susan snapped.

You see, my lawyer, whom I’d called the other day, arrived and explained the situation. And this is what he said:

“Mrs. Anderson, everything the family owned is in your name. The house, the SUV, the farmhouse, everything. Mr. Anderson transferred it all to you years ago, keeping just three grand in his bank account and his old Mustang. It’s up to you now to decide the fate of these assets.”

Until the lawyer dropped the bomb, I’d assumed George had left me nothing. But no! He had made sure I’d be taken care of after he was gone. Bless his soul.

Susan’s face twisted with rage when I spilled the tea. “You’re lying! This can’t be true!” she hissed.

I looked at her, a strange calm settling over me. “Well, Susan, you wanted your father’s assets. Now you have them.”

“This isn’t fair!” she shrieked. “You tricked me!”

I looked up, a gentle smile plastered on my face. “No, Susan. I gave you exactly what you asked for… what rightfully belonged to your father. And now, I’m keeping what rightfully belongs to me.”

In the days that followed, I made a decision. I sold everything — the house, the SUV, the farmhouse, all of it. I made a decent eight figures, and bought a beautiful villa in a place I’d always dreamed of living, far from everyone.

As I settled into my new home, I received a call from an old friend back in town.

“Mariana,” she said, her voice hushed. “I thought you should know. Susan’s trying to start litigation against you.”

I sighed, unsurprised. “Let me guess, it fell through?”

“Yep. Everything was in your name, after all!”

I thanked her for the information and hung up, feeling a pang of sadness and relief.

Weeks passed, and I started to enjoy my new life. I traveled around the world, tried new hobbies, made new friends. But the peace didn’t last.

One day, my phone rang with an unfamiliar number. When I answered, I heard a man’s voice. “Mrs. Anderson? I’m calling on behalf of Susan. She wants to meet with you.”

I felt a chill run down my spine. “No,” I said firmly. “I’m not interested.”

“But Mrs. Anderson, she insists—”

I cut him off. “Tell Susan she got what she wanted. I have nothing more to say to her.”

As I ended the call, I couldn’t help but wonder why Susan was so desperate to meet now. What more could she possibly want? The fragments of my remaining peace?

I shook my head, pushing the thought away. It didn’t matter. I had a new life now, and I intended to live it to the fullest. After all, isn’t that what George would have wanted?

Here’s another story: Angela’s picture-perfect life is destroyed when she finds her husband’s clothes in their neighbor’s laundry basket.

This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.