That summer, everything unraveled. I lost my apartment, my dream café, and worst of all—my father. After years of working myself to the bone, I was left with nothing but grief and a suitcase. With nowhere else to go, I turned to my stepmother, Lydia, hoping she’d honor my father’s memory and let me stay in the home he promised me.

At first, she played the grieving widow, all tissue dabs and sad smiles. But once the lawyer revealed that the house transfer required her approval, her true colors surfaced. She named her price: I’d have to use my café savings to buy her daughter, Chloe, an apartment. If not, they’d make my life in the house unbearable.

And they did. Cold meals, loud music, mockery, and finally—the last straw. I came home one day to find my belongings dumped in the rain. My father’s photos soaked, my books ruined. That’s when I called Cynthia—Lydia’s estranged mother and Dad’s old friend. The one person Lydia couldn’t control.

Cynthia moved in the next day, sage-burning and fearless. She brought with her a letter from my dad—the real will—proving Lydia had manipulated everything. When Lydia objected, Cynthia waved the letter like a sword and dared her to take it to court.

Lydia and Chloe packed up and left in a flurry of stomps and slamming doors. Peace returned.

That evening, Cynthia and I raised a cup to Dad. “To Raymond,” she said, “and to strong girls who don’t let witches win.” I smiled. My dream was alive again—this time, with a little help from family.