When I was ten, my parents died in a car crash. My Aunt Margaret and Uncle David took me in—or so they claimed. They
promised to “take care of everything,” including my childhood home, but instead moved me into their basement and rented out
the house for profit. I later discovered the truth—they’d stolen everything. My inheritance. My home.
Even my parents’ memory. At fourteen, I overheard my uncle bragging about the rental income. When I asked to see the will,
they brushed me off with excuses and lies.At seventeen, I found the real will hidden beneath a floorboard in the basement.
Everything—my house, my parents’ savings—was legally mine.
But I waited, biding my time until I turned eighteen and could fight back properly.
With the help of my friend Mia and her lawyer relative, we gathered evidence—recordings, documents, bank statements. On my
birthday, I confronted them. They panicked. I had them on camera, confessing, threatening, and proving everything.
