I’m Rachel. I’m 19. Last fall, my parents died in a car crash on their way to dinner. One moment they were laughing over where to eat. The next, I was holding a paper cup of bitter coffee in a waiting room, wishing it was all a bad dream.

After the funeral, silence took over the house. Then came the will reading.

Across the table sat Aunt Dina — my dad’s estranged sister. She wore red lipstick and a smug look, like she was early for a cocktail party, not about to discuss her dead brother’s estate.

The lawyer cleared his throat. “The house goes to Ms. Dina.”

I blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”

“It’s all here in the will,” he said, avoiding my eyes.

“They hated each other,” I whispered. “She barely spoke to us.”

But the lawyer just nodded, said everything was “valid,” and closed the folder.

“You’ve got one day to pack,” she said to me. “I want the place cleaned up before I move in.”

That night, I packed in silence — folding clothes, wrapping picture frames, holding on to every memory like it might disappear too. Dina watched TV with her feet on the coffee table, tossing occasional insults my way like popcorn.

By morning, I stood on the porch with two suitcases and a wilting peace lily. Then, a black limousine pulled up to the curb.

A man stepped out — tall, neat, suit too expensive for this street.

“Rachel?” he said.

I stared. “Uncle Mike?”

He smiled. “You’ve grown. Last time I saw you, you thought pens were magic wands.”