I lost my parents overnight. One moment I was a 19-year-old college kid, the next I was an orphan sitting in a silent house, clutching cold coffee and wishing for an “undo” button. Then came the will reading. My aunt Dina—my dad’s bitter sister—showed up in a red dress and fake sympathy. When the lawyer announced the house was hers, I thought I’d misheard. But Dina just smirked. “You have 24 hours to move out,” she said.

I packed in silence while she lounged on the couch, watching TV like she hadn’t just gutted my life. The next morning, I stood on the porch with two suitcases and my mother’s peace lily. That’s when a black limousine stopped in front of the house. Out stepped my estranged Uncle Mike. He showed me a Facebook post of Dina bragging about her “new home.” He’d started digging—and found the truth. Moments later, two police cruisers pulled up.

Mike handed over a folder filled with evidence: forged signatures, fake documents, an unlicensed lawyer. Dina’s smug grin vanished. Minutes later, she was in handcuffs, her mimosa spilling across the porch. Three months later, the court restored everything to me. Dina lost it all.

Now I’m back home, the kitchen smelling of cinnamon again. My mom’s peace lily has bloomed—proof that even after betrayal, life can still find a way to grow. Sometimes karma arrives late. But when it does, it pulls up in style.