Six months later, I repainted the living room Dad’s favorite shade of blue.
I restored Mom’s flower garden. Hung all the family photos Carla had taken down. The house felt like home again.
One day, I got a message from a college friend in Arizona.
“Hey, is this your stepmom? She was ranting at a coffee shop about her ‘ungrateful stepdaughter who stole her house.’ Thought you’d get a laugh.”
Attached was a photo of Carla, looking disheveled and bitter.
I smiled and put my phone away.
From the porch swing Dad built when I was twelve, I looked out over the yard where we’d built snowmen, launched water balloons, and planted a tree when Mom died.
“You were right, Dad,” I whispered into the breeze. “People do show you who they are. And karma? She always shows up.”
Sometimes, she even lets you hold the door open.
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