My grandmother died three years ago and left me her house. The paperwork was simple, no disputes. Six months ago my dad remarried, and a week after the wedding he told me, “That was my mother’s house. It should’ve been mine.”
I didn’t argue.
Soon he and his new wife moved in without asking. I let it happen because I didn’t want to hurt my relationship with him. That was my first mistake.
At first it was small—new pillows, curtains, furniture moved for “better flow.” Then my towels vanished. My grandmother’s sofa disappeared. My vintage desk too.
When I confronted her, she smiled. “I live here now. The house should match my standards.”
I realized it wasn’t decorating. It was control.
Arguing changed nothing, and involving my dad would only end one way. So I chose something quieter.
Whenever he was at work, I shifted things back—but slightly wrong. Crooked frames. Cushions off-center. Books almost in order. I left my grandmother’s jewelry box open, her glasses in strange places, her rocking chair wandering room to room.
Soon she was terrified. Said the house felt like it was watching her.
Last night I walked past the doorway wearing my grandmother’s shawl.
She screamed.
Later she asked if I’d seen the woman in it. I said no.
They moved out.
And my grandmother’s house is peaceful again.
