My dad’s siblings showed up demanding his estate and wearing our dead mom’s jewelry while saying we weren’t real family. So, I destroyed them one by one.

My dad was the youngest of five kids and the only one who actually made something of himself. While his siblings bounced between jobs and bad decisions, Dad became an electrician, started his own company, and built it into a successful business with fifteen employees. He bought a nice house, invested smart, and made sure me and my sister Kelly never wanted for anything.

His siblings always acted friendly when they needed something, though. Uncle Robert needed a loan for his fifth business idea that would definitely work this time. Aunt Diane’s car broke down, and Dad was the only one who could help. Uncle Tony needed Dad to hire his son, who couldn’t keep a job anywhere else. Aunt Marie wanted Dad to cosign her apartment lease because her credit was destroyed.

Dad helped every single time because he said that’s what family does. He never asked for anything back, never held it over their heads, just quietly wrote checks and fixed problems.

When Dad got sick with cancer, none of them visited. Not once in eight months of treatment. Too busy, too far, too hard to see him like that. Kelly and I were nineteen and twenty-one, taking turns driving him to chemo, sleeping in hospital chairs, managing his business while he fought to stay alive. His siblings sent a few texts asking for updates, but that was it.

Dad died on a Tuesday morning holding our hands. His siblings showed up to the funeral forty minutes late, made big speeches about what a wonderful brother he was, then asked when we were reading the will.

Here’s the thing about Dad. He was old-fashioned about some stuff. He never updated his will after our mom died ten years earlier. It still listed her as the primary beneficiary with his siblings as secondary if she predeceased him. His lawyer said it was a mess, but technically legal.

The house, the business, his investments, everything would go to his siblings. Me and Kelly were only mentioned as beneficiaries of our college funds, which we’d already used for school.

The day after the funeral, Uncle Robert showed up at our house with a locksmith. He said we had thirty days to move out, but he wanted to inventory everything now to make sure we didn’t steal anything. Aunt Diane was already going through Dad’s office, taking his watch collection he’d spent years building. Uncle Tony had contacted Dad’s business accountant to start the sale process. Aunt Marie was in our mom’s jewelry box, the one Dad kept exactly how she left it, trying on rings.

When I told them this was wrong, they said we weren’t real family anyway. Uncle Robert actually said Dad was their blood. We were just kids he got stuck with when he married our mom. Diane said we should be grateful Dad paid for our college and not get greedy. Tony said if Dad wanted us to have anything, he would have fixed his will. Marie said we were adults now and could take care of ourselves.

They gave us two weeks instead of thirty to get out. Said they needed to sell the house fast and we were in the way.

Kelly cried for three days straight.

I spent those three days doing something else.

See, Dad taught me his business from the ground up. I knew every client, every contract, every employee. More importantly, I knew all his siblings’ dirty secrets because Dad used to vent to me about their problems.

Uncle Robert had been cheating on his taxes for years, claiming fake business expenses. Dad had helped him file correctly last year, but Robert went back to his old ways. Aunt Diane had a gambling problem she hid from everyone except Dad, who’d bailed her out of debt twice. Uncle Tony had gotten fired from his last job for stealing equipment, but Dad convinced them not to press charges. Aunt Marie had been collecting disability while working under the table at a salon. Dad knew because he’d seen her there while getting his haircut.

But I didn’t use any of that.

Instead, I called Dad’s biggest client, Mr. Roger, who’d known me since I was twelve and always said I was like a granddaughter to him. I told him what Dad’s siblings were doing. He was disgusted. Within a day, every client knew the story.

Then I called Dad’s employees, told them the new owners were selling immediately and they should look for other jobs. I also mentioned that the siblings had called them lazy and overpaid in front of Kelly and me. That wasn’t true, but the employees believed it because it sounded like something those greedy jerks would say.

All fifteen employees quit on the same day. The siblings couldn’t run the business without them.

Next, I visited Dad’s estate lawyer. His office was downtown in one of those old brick buildings with creaky floors and walls covered in law degrees. Zachary Kemp looked exactly like I remembered from when Dad had him draw up business contracts years ago, maybe fifty, with gray hair and reading glasses that kept sliding down his nose.

I sat across from his desk and laid it all out. Every detail about the outdated will that still named Mom even though she’d been dead for a decade. About Dad’s siblings showing up with a locksmith the day after the funeral. About Aunt Marie trying on Mom’s rings while calling Kelly and me not real family.

Zachary listened without interrupting, just nodding and taking notes on his legal pad. When I got to the part about Uncle Robert saying Dad was their blood and we were just kids he got stuck with, Zachary’s jaw tightened.

He asked questions about Dad’s relationship with his siblings during the cancer treatment, about who visited and who didn’t, about the texts they sent instead of showing up. I told him the truth: that in eight months of chemo and hospital stays, not one of them came to see Dad, not even once.

Zachary wrote that down carefully and said there might be legal grounds to challenge the will based on Dad’s clear intent and the siblings’ total abandonment during his illness. He explained that courts look at more than just what a will says on paper. They consider the circumstances and whether the document actually reflects what the person wanted, especially when it’s old and outdated like Dad’s was.

Zachary leaned back in his chair and started explaining the legal strategy, saying that while Dad’s will was technically valid since it met all the legal requirements when he signed it, we could argue several things in court.

First was undue influence, though that was tricky since the siblings weren’t around when Dad made the will. But we could argue Dad never updated it because he trusted them to do right by us—and they violated that trust.

Second was lack of relationship, showing that Dad’s siblings had no real connection to him in his final years except when they needed money, which meant the will didn’t reflect his actual family structure.

Third and strongest was Dad’s obvious intent to provide for his actual dependents, meaning Kelly and me, the two people who took care of him and ran his business while he was sick.

Zachary said it would cost money for court fees and legal work, probably thousands of dollars that Kelly and I didn’t really have, and it would take months or maybe even a year to resolve. But he’d seen cases like this succeed before, especially when you could prove the deceased person’s real intentions were different from what an old will said. He thought we had a decent shot if we could gather enough evidence about Dad’s relationship with us versus his relationship with his siblings.

I told Zachary to start the legal challenge paperwork right away—whatever forms needed filing, whatever motions or petitions or whatever lawyers call that stuff. Then I leaned forward and said I wasn’t planning to just sit around waiting for the courts to fix this, that I had my own plans to handle the situation.

Zachary gave me this look over his reading glasses, kind of knowing and careful at the same time, and said he didn’t hear that last part. But whatever I did outside the courtroom, I needed to make sure everything we did inside the courtroom stayed clean and legal. He said he’d file aggressively, request emergency injunctions to prevent asset sales, demand full discovery of the siblings’ financial situations and their relationship history with Dad. He’d make this as expensive and difficult for them as possible through proper legal channels.

And if I happened to be making their lives difficult through other means, well, he couldn’t control what happened outside his office.

I liked Zachary more in that moment than I had during all those boring contract meetings with Dad because he understood that sometimes you need to fight on multiple fronts, and he was willing to be the legitimate front while I handled the rest.

That same afternoon, I drove to Dad’s warehouse office, the big metal building in the industrial park where he kept all the equipment and supplies. Uncle Tony’s truck was parked out front, which made my stomach twist, and I could see people moving around inside through the windows.

I walked in and found Phil Chandler, Dad’s lead electrician, who’d worked for him for twelve years, standing in the middle of the warehouse looking absolutely miserable while three other employees packed up tools and equipment under Uncle Tony’s supervision.

Phil saw me come in and his whole face just crumbled. Before I could say anything, he walked over and hugged me, which was weird because Phil was this tough guy who never showed emotion. He pulled back and his eyes were wet, and he said this whole thing was wrong, that Dad would be so mad if he could see what his siblings were doing.

I could see Uncle Tony watching us from across the warehouse, and he started walking over with this fake concerned expression, asking if I needed something since this was private property now. Phil stepped between us and told Tony to back off, that I had more right to be here than any of them did, and I watched several other employees stop packing to see what would happen.

I asked Phil if I could talk to everyone for a minute, all the employees together, and Phil nodded and started calling people over. Uncle Tony tried to object, saying they had work to do and I was disrupting business operations. But Phil just ignored him, and within two minutes, all fifteen employees were gathered around me in a circle.

I looked at their faces—these people who’d known me since I was a kid, hanging around Dad’s office during summer breaks, who’d taught me how to strip wire and bend conduit, who’d come to my high school graduation.

I told them everything.

No sugarcoating.

I started with how Dad’s siblings never visited once during eight months of cancer treatment. How Kelly and I drove Dad to chemo appointments while his brothers and sisters were too busy. I told them about the funeral, how the siblings showed up late and immediately asked about the will. I told them about Uncle Robert bringing a locksmith to our house the day after we buried Dad. About Aunt Diane taking Dad’s watch collection. About Aunt Marie trying on our dead mother’s jewelry while telling Kelly and me we weren’t real family.

I watched their faces change as I talked. Saw them go from uncomfortable to disgusted to genuinely angry.

Phil spoke up first, his voice rough, saying Dad talked about Kelly and me constantly at work. He said Dad kept photos of us on his office wall, pictures from our graduations and holidays, and he was always showing everyone new photos on his phone. Phil said Dad made it super clear that we were his whole world after Mom died, that every decision he made for the business was about building something to leave us.

Three other longtime employees jumped in with their own stories, talking about how Dad would light up whenever Kelly or I called during the workday, how he’d brag about my grades and Kelly’s art projects, how proud he was when I started learning the electrical trade.

One guy named Janice said Dad used to complain about his siblings calling only when they needed money, that it frustrated Dad how they treated him like a bank instead of a brother. Another employee, Sarah, said Dad mentioned once that his biggest regret was helping his siblings so much over the years when they never appreciated it or paid him back.

The stories kept coming, and I could see Uncle Tony’s face getting red as he realized how much Dad’s employees knew about the family dynamics.

I let the stories wind down. Then I told everyone the hard truth about what Uncle Tony and the others were planning. I said they wanted to sell the business fast and cheap, probably within weeks, which meant nobody’s job was safe no matter what promises got made.

I mentioned that I’d overheard the siblings talking about the employees, calling them overpaid and lazy, saying Dad was too soft and they’d have fired half the crew years ago. That last part wasn’t exactly true, but it sounded like something those greedy jerks would say, and I watched Phil’s face turn dark red with anger.

Several other employees started muttering, and Uncle Tony tried to interrupt, saying that was a lie and he never said that. But Phil cut him off, saying it didn’t matter if he said it or not, because everyone could see what kind of people they were based on how they treated Dad’s daughters.

Sarah said she wasn’t working for people who abandoned Dad during cancer and then swooped in to grab everything he built. Janice said his loyalty was to Dad’s memory, not to strangers who happened to share Dad’s blood.

The employees started asking what they could do to help, and I could see Uncle Tony’s panic as he realized he was losing control of the situation.

I kept my voice calm and said I understood everyone had bills to pay and families to support, that I wasn’t telling anyone what to do with their jobs. But I suggested maybe they should think about their options, about whether they wanted to work for people who were destroying everything Dad built, or whether their loyalty to Dad’s memory meant something different.

I didn’t explicitly say “quit.” I didn’t directly tell them to walk out. But I made it really clear that I would understand completely if they decided working for Dad’s siblings wasn’t something they could stomach.

Phil nodded slowly and said he needed to think about some things, and several other employees echoed that. Uncle Tony started yelling about manipulation and interference, but nobody was listening to him anymore.

I walked out of the warehouse feeling like I’d lit a fuse, and now I just had to wait to see how big the explosion would be.

Three days later, all fifteen employees gave their notice on the same morning. Phil called me to let me know and I could hear the satisfaction in his voice as he described Uncle Tony’s meltdown when he realized the entire workforce was quitting simultaneously. The business was completely unstaffed—no electricians to do the work, no one to answer phones or manage the schedule.

Uncle Tony called me that afternoon, screaming so loud I had to hold the phone away from my ear, accusing me of sabotage and threatening to sue me for tortious interference with business relationships. I waited until he ran out of breath. Then I said very calmly that I had no authority over Dad’s employees since I wasn’t family and didn’t own anything.

His own words from the house.

I reminded him that he and his siblings had made it super clear that Kelly and I were just kids Dad got stuck with. So how could I possibly have influenced loyal employees to quit?

Tony sputtered and threatened more legal action, but we both knew he had no case. And even if he did, he couldn’t afford a lawyer any better than the siblings could afford to run the business without employees.

That same evening, Mr. Roger called my cell phone. He said he’d been hearing things through the business community, stories about Dad’s siblings taking over the company and all the employees walking out. He said he’d known Dad for twenty-five years, watched me grow up from a kid hanging around job sites to a young woman who understood the trade, and he wanted me to know he was on my side.

Mr. Roger said if there was anything he could do to help, anything at all, he was ready to do it, including testifying in court about Dad’s intentions if it came to that. His voice got rough when he talked about Dad, saying my father was one of the most honest contractors he’d ever worked with, and it made him sick to think of Dad’s siblings grabbing everything while the daughters who actually took care of him got nothing.

I thanked him, feeling tears in my eyes for the first time since the funeral, because having someone like Mr. Roger in my corner meant I wasn’t fighting this battle completely alone.

The next morning, Mr. Roger called and asked if I could meet him for coffee at the diner on Fourth Street. I showed up fifteen minutes early, ordered black coffee I didn’t really want, and sat in a booth by the window watching cars go past.

Mr. Roger arrived right on time, but he wasn’t alone. Three other men walked in with him, all wearing work boots and contractor jackets, all people I recognized from job sites over the years.

Mr. Roger made introductions, even though I already knew who they were. Frank owned the biggest construction company in town and had used Dad’s electrical work on dozens of projects. Brile ran a property management firm with over forty rental units that Dad maintained. Carlos owned three restaurants and Dad had done all the wiring when he renovated them.

They ordered coffee and sat down around the booth, and Frank got straight to the point. He said he’d heard about what happened with Dad’s siblings taking over the business and he wanted me to know he was canceling his contracts immediately.

Brile nodded and said the same thing, that he’d contracted with Dad’s company because of Dad’s reputation and work quality, not because of some siblings he’d never met who had nothing to do with building that reputation. Carlos added that Dad had been more than a contractor, he’d been a friend, and the idea of working with people who couldn’t even visit him during cancer treatment made him sick.

Mr. Roger put his hand over mine on the table and said every single one of them was pulling their business effective immediately, and they’d all be telling other contractors and business owners exactly why they were doing it.

I felt tears starting but pushed them back down because I needed to stay focused and strong.

Frank said Dad had talked about me constantly, showed everyone photos of me learning to wire outlets and install breakers, made it clear I understood the trade better than most adults he’d worked with. Brile mentioned that Dad had told him just three months before he got sick that he hoped I’d take over the business someday because I had the skills and the work ethic.

I thanked them all, my voice shaking a little, and said it meant everything to know Dad’s clients understood what his siblings were doing and weren’t going to support it.

They stayed for another hour sharing stories about Dad and promising to spread the word through the business community about how the siblings had treated us.

By the time they left, I felt like I had an army behind me instead of fighting this battle alone.

Over the next week, the client exodus turned into an avalanche. Dad’s phone started ringing constantly with cancellation requests, and Uncle Tony had to answer every single one because he didn’t know how to check voicemail.

I heard from Phil that Tony was freaking out, yelling at the phone, trying to convince people to stay by promising discounts and faster service. But nobody cared about discounts from people they didn’t trust.

The business community in our town was tight, and word traveled fast about what had happened.

Dad had spent twenty years building relationships based on showing up on time, doing quality work, and treating people fairly, and everyone knew his siblings had contributed exactly nothing to that success.

By Friday, the company had lost eighteen major contracts, including all the property management work, two restaurant accounts, and three ongoing construction projects.

Phil called me with updates every night, and I could hear the satisfaction in his voice as he described Uncle Tony’s panic. The siblings had thought they were inheriting a money machine, but what they actually got was a reputation and a client list. And both of those things were disappearing fast because reputation can’t be inherited, and clients can choose who they work with.

Aunt Diane apparently suggested they could just find new clients, and Phil said Uncle Tony had laughed in her face and asked how exactly they planned to do that with no employees and no one who knew how to do electrical work.

I was sitting at a coffee shop on Tuesday afternoon working on my laptop and researching will challenges when Uncle Robert walked in. He spotted me immediately and came straight to my table, his face red and his hands shaking.

He demanded to know what I’d been telling people, why I was poisoning Dad’s clients against them, what gave me the right to destroy the business they’d inherited.

I looked up at him calmly, closed my laptop, and said I hadn’t told anyone anything that wasn’t true. I pointed out that they did abandon Dad during his eight months of cancer treatment. They did show up at the funeral asking about the will. They did show up the next day with a locksmith and start taking things, and they absolutely did call Kelly and me not real family while Aunt Marie tried on our dead mother’s jewelry.

Robert’s face got even redder, and he said I was twisting things, taking them out of context, making them sound worse than they were.

I asked him what context made it okay to tell two grieving daughters they weren’t real family, and he didn’t have an answer for that.

He tried a different approach, saying they were just stressed and upset about losing their brother, that grief made people say things they didn’t mean.

I reminded him that Kelly and I were also grieving, that we’d actually been there taking care of Dad while Robert and his siblings were too busy to visit, and somehow we’d managed not to show up demanding money and jewelry the day after the funeral.

Robert switched tactics again and started threatening legal action for interference with business operations. He said I was deliberately sabotaging their inheritance and they had grounds to sue me for damages.

I smiled at him, the same cold smile I’d been practicing in the mirror, and told him to have his lawyer call my lawyer. I pulled out one of Zachary Kemp’s business cards that I’d been carrying around and slid it across the table.

Robert picked it up and I watched his face change as he realized what it meant. I’d already lawyered up, which meant I was serious about fighting this, and lawyers cost money that Robert definitely didn’t have.

He tried to bluff, saying his lawyer was already preparing a case, but his voice wasn’t confident anymore.

I told him good luck with that and went back to my laptop, dismissing him completely.

Robert stood there for another minute, probably trying to think of something else to say, but eventually he just turned and walked out. I watched him through the window, seeing him sit in his car for a long time before driving away, and I knew I’d shaken him.

Kelly and I spent that weekend moving into a small apartment across town. It was all we could afford, using what was left of our college funds after tuition and books. A tiny two-bedroom place in an old building with thin walls and carpet that smelled like the previous tenant’s cat. The kitchen was barely big enough for one person. The bathroom had tiles missing around the tub, and the bedroom windows didn’t close all the way, so you could feel cold air coming through.

But it was ours. Rented in our names with our money, and nobody could show up with a locksmith and kick us out.

We didn’t have much furniture because the siblings had taken almost everything from the house, so we bought cheap stuff from thrift stores and slept on air mattresses the first few nights. Kelly cried while we unpacked boxes, saying the apartment was so small and ugly compared to the house we grew up in, and I agreed, but pointed out that at least it was ours and we were safe here.

That first night in the new apartment, Kelly actually slept through without waking up crying. I took that as a win, even though the air mattress made my back hurt and I could hear the neighbors fighting through the wall.

Zachary called me on Monday morning with an update that made me sit down hard on our secondhand couch. He’d filed the will challenge in court, citing lack of relationship between Dad and his siblings, their abandonment during his illness, and Dad’s clear intent to provide for his dependent daughters based on how he’d actually lived his life.

The filing included statements from Mr. Roger and the other clients, documentation from Dad’s oncology center showing visitor records, and copies of all the loans Dad had made to his siblings that never got repaid.

But the really good news was that Zachary had also filed for an emergency injunction to prevent the siblings from selling any major assets until the will challenge got resolved. He’d argued that if they sold the house and business and spent the money, there’d be nothing left to give Kelly and me if we won the challenge.

The judge had granted the injunction that morning, which meant the siblings couldn’t sell anything without court permission.

I asked Zachary what that meant practically and he explained that the house couldn’t go on the market, the business couldn’t be sold, and even Dad’s investments were frozen until the court made a decision. The siblings were stuck holding assets they couldn’t access, which completely destroyed their plans for quick cash.

Uncle Tony called me that afternoon and his voice sounded completely different from the last time we’d talked. Instead of yelling and threatening, he was practically begging. He said they needed the money from the estate, that they all had bills and debts and couldn’t wait months for a court case to resolve. He asked if we could work something out, maybe come to an agreement without lawyers and judges getting involved.

I told him I’d think about it and hung up before he could say anything else.

Kelly asked what he’d wanted, and I explained that the injunction was working exactly how Zachary had planned, putting pressure on the siblings by tying up all the money they’d been counting on.

Kelly said, “Good. They deserve to suffer after what they’ve done to us.” And I agreed, but also felt a tiny bit guilty because these were still Dad’s siblings, even if they’d acted like monsters.

The next week, I met with all four siblings at Zachary’s office downtown. Willow, his assistant, was there taking notes on her laptop, and I’d spent the previous night rehearsing what I was going to say.

The siblings looked terrible, tired and stressed and beaten down in a way that would have made me feel bad if I hadn’t remembered Aunt Marie trying on Mom’s rings.

I laid out my terms clearly and calmly. They could have the house and split it four ways, which would give each of them a decent chunk of money once it sold. Kelly and I would take the business, Dad’s investments, and all personal property, including every piece of Mom’s jewelry that Aunt Marie was currently wearing.

I watched their faces as I talked, seeing Uncle Robert do math in his head, seeing Aunt Diane’s jaw tighten, seeing Uncle Tony look at Aunt Marie like this was somehow her fault.

Aunt Diane spoke first, saying the business was worth way more than the house and the split wasn’t fair.

I smiled at her, the same cold smile I’d used on Robert at the coffee shop, and pointed out that the business was currently worth exactly nothing. It had no employees because they’d all quit, no clients because they’d all canceled their contracts, and no ongoing work because there was nobody to do it.

The house, on the other hand, was still worth its market value of around $300,000, which meant $75,000 each after the mortgage got paid off.

I asked Diane if she’d rather have $75,000 guaranteed, or keep fighting for a share of a worthless business while paying legal fees she couldn’t afford.

She didn’t have a good answer for that.

Uncle Robert argued they were entitled to everything because that’s what the will said, his voice getting louder as he talked.

Zachary stepped in smoothly and explained how will challenges actually worked, how judges looked at the totality of circumstances, including relationship history and the deceased’s clear intentions.

He pointed out that Dad had supported Kelly and me for years, paid for our college, involved us in his business, and made his love for us obvious to everyone who knew him. Meanwhile, the siblings had borrowed over $70,000 they never repaid, rarely visited, and completely abandoned him during his cancer treatment.

Zachary said judges took that kind of thing very seriously when evaluating whether a will reflected someone’s true wishes or just outdated paperwork they never got around to fixing. He also mentioned that prolonged litigation was expensive, often costing tens of thousands of dollars, and if the siblings fought and lost, they might end up with nothing at all after legal fees.

I watched them process this information, seeing the moment when they realized they were trapped between accepting my offer or risking everything on a court battle they probably couldn’t afford and might not win.

The siblings looked at each other, then back at Zachary. Uncle Robert cleared his throat and said they needed time to discuss this privately.

Zachary nodded and told them they had one week to decide before he moved forward with full litigation, which would include discovery. He explained that discovery meant depositions where they’d have to answer questions under oath about their relationship with Dad, their whereabouts during his eight-month cancer treatment, and every financial transaction they’d had with him.

Willow handed each of them a single-page summary of what discovery would entail, and I watched Aunt Diane’s face go pale as she read through it.

They filed out of the office without looking at Kelly or me, and I felt a weird mix of satisfaction and exhaustion wash over me.

Zachary waited until the door closed, then turned to us and said we’d done well staying calm. He told us to use the next week gathering any additional evidence we could find—anything that showed the pattern of the siblings taking from Dad without giving back.

Kelly and I spent the entire next day going through boxes in our tiny apartment, sorting through everything we’d grabbed from the house before moving out. We found a shoebox full of cards and letters Dad had saved, and as we read through them, a pattern emerged that made my stomach hurt.

Every single card from his siblings either asked for money, thanked him for money, or promised to pay him back someday. Birthday cards, Christmas cards, random Tuesday cards— all of them contained requests or gratitude for financial help.

Meanwhile, the cards Kelly and I had sent over the years were full of inside jokes, memories, and genuine affection, with no mention of money anywhere.

I made copies of everything and organized them chronologically, creating a timeline that showed twenty years of one-sided financial support.

Kelly found letters Dad had written but never sent, venting his frustration about always being the family bank and never getting so much as a phone call unless someone needed something. Reading Dad’s private thoughts made both of us cry, but it also strengthened my resolve to fight for what he’d actually wanted us to have.

On Wednesday, I drove to the cancer center where Dad had received treatment and met with the head nurse who’d overseen his care. Her name was Sandra, and she remembered Dad clearly because he’d always been polite even when he felt terrible.

I explained the situation with the will and the siblings, and Sandra’s expression hardened.

She pulled Dad’s visitor log from their records, and there it was in black and white. Eight months of treatment, dozens of appointments, and the only visitors ever listed were Kelly and me.

Sandra wrote a detailed statement describing how Dad had talked constantly about his daughters, how we’d taken turns staying with him during bad reactions to chemo, and how he’d mentioned feeling abandoned by his siblings who couldn’t be bothered to visit.

She signed and dated it, then made me promise to let her know how things turned out because Dad had been one of her favorite patients, and this situation made her furious.

Thursday morning, Phil called and asked if he could drop by our apartment. He showed up an hour later with a manila folder full of employment records for Uncle Tony’s son, whose name was Derek.

Phil had kept detailed documentation because Derek had been a problem from day one—showing up late or not at all, doing sloppy work that Phil had to redo, and generally making everyone else’s job harder.

The final straw came when Derek showed up drunk to a job site and nearly electrocuted himself working on a live panel. Phil had wanted to fire him immediately, but Dad had insisted on giving Derek another chance because family deserved second chances.

Two weeks later, Derek stole three expensive power tools from the warehouse and sold them. Dad found out when a pawn shop called asking about serial numbers, but instead of pressing charges, he just paid the pawn shop to get the tools back and quietly let Derek go.

Phil had documented all of it, including Dad’s notes about eating the cost to avoid embarrassing his brother. This directly contradicted Uncle Tony’s claims about being close with Dad and helping build the business, since his own son had stolen from that business and Dad had covered it up to protect Tony’s reputation.

I called Mr. Roger that afternoon and asked if he’d be willing to write an official statement about his relationship with Dad and observations about the siblings. He said he’d do better than that and invited me to his office the next morning.

When I arrived Friday, Mr. Roger had prepared a five-page affidavit describing twenty-five years of friendship and business dealings with Dad. He’d included specific incidents like the time Uncle Robert asked Dad for $10,000 for a business venture and Dad borrowed against his house to help, only for Robert’s business to fail within three months and the loan never to be repaid.

Mr. Roger detailed how Dad had supported all his siblings financially while building his own company from nothing, how Dad had talked about wanting Kelly and me to eventually take over the business, and how Dad had expressed hurt over his siblings only calling when they needed money.

Three other longtime clients had also prepared statements after Mr. Roger contacted them, and all of them painted the same picture of Dad being used by his siblings for decades while receiving nothing in return.

Saturday, I met with Nicolette Hester at a coffee shop downtown. She brought her laptop and a thick folder of financial records spanning fifteen years.

Nicolette had been Dad’s accountant since he started the business, and she’d tracked every loan, every gift, every financial transaction he’d had with his siblings. The total came to $73,412 over the years, with exactly zero repaid.

She’d printed out copies of checks, wire transfers, and Dad’s handwritten notes about each transaction. Some of the notes broke my heart. One from six years ago said he’d loaned Aunt Diane $5,000 for gambling debts and felt guilty for enabling her problem, but she was family and he couldn’t say no. Another from three years ago mentioned giving Uncle Robert money for his rent because Robert had called crying and Dad felt obligated to help, even though Robert never followed through on promises to get his life together.

Nicolette had also found notes where Dad expressed frustration about his siblings taking advantage of his success, but he’d written that family meant helping even when it hurt.

She organized everything into a professional report with summaries and totals, making it impossible to argue that the siblings had any kind of close, reciprocal relationship with Dad.

That same weekend, I started digging into each sibling’s current financial situation using public records and social media. Uncle Robert’s landlord had filed an eviction notice three months ago for unpaid rent, which was public record at the courthouse. Aunt Diane’s car had been repossessed last month, and I found the repo company’s filing online. Uncle Tony had just lost another job, which I knew because his wife had posted on Facebook complaining about it and asking if anyone was hiring. Aunt Marie’s disability review was coming up next month, which I found through a mutual friend who mentioned Marie was stressed about it.

All four of them were barely surviving financially, which explained their desperation to grab Dad’s estate quickly. They needed money immediately and couldn’t afford a long legal battle, which meant my strategy of making the business worthless while protecting our legal position was working exactly as planned.

I felt a little guilty about researching their problems so thoroughly, but then I remembered Aunt Marie trying on Mom’s rings and calling us not real family, and the guilt disappeared.

The week deadline arrived on Tuesday, and the siblings returned to Zachary’s office looking worse than before. Uncle Robert had dark circles under his eyes, and Aunt Diane kept picking at her fingernails nervously. Uncle Tony stared at the floor, and Aunt Marie looked like she’d been crying recently.

Zachary asked if they’d reached a decision and Robert spoke for the group in a quiet voice. He admitted they couldn’t afford to fight a prolonged legal battle with depositions and court costs, and they were willing to negotiate if Kelly and I were still open to it.

Zachary looked at me and I nodded. I’d been thinking about the offer all week and decided to revise it slightly to make it more appealing while still protecting what mattered most to us.

I laid out the new terms clearly. They would get the house to split four ways, which after paying off the remaining mortgage and realtor fees would give each of them about $75,000. Kelly and I would take the business, all of Dad’s investments, which were worth around $200,000 total, all personal property, including tools and equipment, and Dad’s truck. They also had to return every single piece of Mom’s jewelry immediately, including the rings Aunt Marie had taken.

The room stayed silent for a long moment. Aunt Diane started to object that the business was worth more than the house, but Zachary gently reminded her that the business currently had no employees, no active contracts, and no clients, making its actual value close to zero. The house, however, still held its full market value regardless of family drama.

Aunt Marie started crying and said $75,000 wasn’t enough after everything Dad had put them through growing up. My anger flashed hot and immediate.

I leaned forward and asked what exactly Dad had put them through besides working hard and succeeding while they made bad choices and failed repeatedly.

Zachary put a hand on my arm to calm me down, but I was tired of them playing victim when they’d abandoned Dad during cancer and then showed up demanding everything he’d built.

Kelly squeezed my other hand under the table and I took a breath, forcing myself to stay calm even though I wanted to scream.

Uncle Tony tried a different approach, his voice taking on a pleading tone. He said Dad would have wanted them taken care of since that’s what family does, and surely we understood that.

I looked at him directly and pointed out that Dad did take care of them for decades—giving them over $70,000 in loans they never repaid, cosigning leases when their credit was destroyed, hiring their kids when no one else would, and fixing their problems over and over again. And when Dad got sick and needed them for once in his life, they couldn’t even visit him during eight months of cancer treatment.

I said they didn’t get to lecture me about what family does when they’d proven they didn’t understand the concept at all.

Kelly’s voice cut through the room like she’d physically slapped everyone. She stood up from her chair, hands trembling, and stared directly at Robert.

“You don’t get to talk about what family does,” she said, her words shaking but clear. “Not after you called us not real family while Aunt Marie tried on our dead mother’s rings the day after Dad’s funeral.

“Not after none of you visited him once during eight months of chemo while we slept in the hospital chairs and held his hand through every treatment.”

The room went completely silent. Aunt Diane looked down at her lap, her face red. Uncle Tony shifted in his seat and wouldn’t meet Kelly’s eyes. Even Aunt Marie stopped crying and just stared at the table.

Kelly sat back down, breathing hard, and I reached over to squeeze her hand under the table.

Zachary cleared his throat and suggested we take another break, maybe get some air and think about things. Everyone stood up slowly, chairs scraping against the floor.

I headed for the hallway, but Uncle Robert caught up to me before I reached the door. He pulled me aside near the water cooler, away from everyone else. His face looked older than I remembered, tired and sad.

He admitted they’d screwed everything up. He said grief and seeing all that money made them act like monsters and he was genuinely sorry for what they said to Kelly and me at the house. His voice was quiet, almost a whisper, like he didn’t want the others to hear him apologizing.

I looked at him for a long moment, remembering how he showed up with that locksmith, how he said Dad got stuck with us. I told him “sorry” didn’t fix anything. It didn’t give us back those weeks Kelly spent crying herself to sleep. It didn’t undo what they said or did.

But I also said I was willing to settle this because Dad wouldn’t want years of court battles, even if he’d be furious about how they treated us.

Robert nodded slowly and said he’d convince the others to accept our terms. He said fighting would leave everyone with nothing, and at least this way they’d get something from the house.

He walked back toward the conference room looking defeated.

We reconvened ten minutes later and everyone took their seats again. Robert spoke for the group, saying they’d accept the settlement: house split four ways between the siblings, everything else to Kelly and me.

Zachary pulled out his laptop and started typing immediately, drawing up the paperwork right there while everyone was still in agreement. He printed everything on Willow’s printer in the next room, brought back three copies, and we all read through them carefully.

The legal language made it official. House to be sold with proceeds divided equally among the four siblings after paying off the mortgage and realtor fees. Business assets, investments, personal property, and all items of sentimental value to Kelly and me. All of Mom’s jewelry to be returned immediately.

We signed that afternoon, each person putting their name on every page. Willow notarized everything with her official stamp, making it legally binding.

The siblings left without saying much, just quiet goodbyes and nods.

Kelly and I stayed behind with Zachary for a few minutes, and he said he’d file everything with the court tomorrow to make it official.

The next morning felt weird, like the air was different somehow. Kelly and I drove to the house at nine, and all four siblings were already waiting on the front porch.

Aunt Marie came down the steps as soon as she saw us, holding Mom’s jewelry box in both hands. Her hands were shaking when she gave it to me. She didn’t say anything, just handed it over and stepped back.

I opened it right there to check and everything was inside. Mom’s wedding ring, the pearl necklace Dad gave her on their tenth anniversary, the little silver bracelet I remembered her wearing every day.

Part of me felt bad seeing Marie’s face, seeing how much this was hurting her. But then I remembered her standing in our house three weeks ago, trying on these same rings and telling us we weren’t family. The bad feeling went away pretty fast.

We spent the next six hours going through every room with Zachary taking notes on his clipboard. The siblings took most of the furniture since they were selling the house with it. They loaded up the couch, the dining table, the beds, all the stuff that would help the house sell faster.

Kelly and I took the photo albums from the living room bookshelf, every single one going back to when our parents first met. We took Dad’s tools from the garage, his entire collection that he’d built up over twenty years of electrical work. We took Mom’s things from her closet that Dad never got rid of: her favorite sweater and her books and her painting supplies. We took the items that meant something, that held memories instead of just monetary value.

It was exhausting, making decision after decision about objects that represented our parents’ entire lives together. Should we keep this lamp? What about these dishes? Who gets the photo of Dad at his first job site? Every choice felt huge and sad and final.

Uncle Tony tried to take Dad’s expensive table saw from the garage around hour four. He said Dad promised it to him years ago, that Dad told him he could have it someday.

I was about to argue, but Phil showed up right then. I’d invited him as a witness for exactly this kind of situation.

Phil walked straight over to Tony and said that wasn’t true. He said Dad specifically told him that saw would go to me someday since I was the only one who learned the trade and would actually use it properly.

Tony’s face went red, but he didn’t argue with Phil. He just walked away and left the saw where it was.

By evening, the house was mostly empty except for the large furniture the siblings would sell with the property. Kelly and I walked through one last time, just the two of us, our footsteps echoing on the bare floors.

We saved Dad’s bedroom for last. Kelly opened the door and stepped inside, and I watched her face crumble. She broke down crying, saying it felt like we were losing him all over again. She slid down the wall and sat on the floor, sobbing into her hands.

I sat down next to her and pulled her close. My own tears finally came after weeks of staying cold and strategic and focused on winning. We sat on the floor of Dad’s empty bedroom for over an hour, just grieving together. No one was watching us. No one needed us to be strong or angry or tactical.

We cried for Dad, for losing him too young, for the way his siblings treated us, for having to sort through his entire life and pack it into boxes.

Kelly leaned her head on my shoulder and I held her hand and we let ourselves feel everything we’d been pushing down for weeks.

The next week went by in a blur of paperwork and phone calls. The house went on the market on Tuesday with a realtor the siblings hired. It sold by Friday for $295,000, which was more than we expected. After the realtor took her six percent and the bank got the remaining mortgage paid off, each sibling ended up with $68,000.

They accepted the money without complaint, probably because they knew it was more than they’d have gotten if they’d fought us in court and lost.

Robert called to confirm he got the check and his voice was quiet and grateful. Diane sent a text saying thank you. Tony and Marie didn’t reach out at all.

Kelly and I took our share of everything else: Dad’s business, his investments, his truck, all the personal property. We had the hard part ahead of us—figuring out how to actually run an electrical company at twenty-one and nineteen years old.

But we had something the siblings never did. We had people who believed in us. Employees who remembered us growing up around the business. Clients who trusted Dad’s judgment in teaching us. We had each other. And we had Dad’s legacy to protect, which turned out to be worth more than any dollar amount his siblings could have gotten from selling everything off piece by piece.

I started calling Phil the next morning, and he answered on the second ring. We met at the warehouse where Dad’s company operated out of, and the place felt empty without the usual noise of employees loading trucks and organizing supplies.

Phil looked tired, like he hadn’t been sleeping much since everything happened. We sat in Dad’s old office and I laid out my plan to rebuild the business with Kelly and me running it instead of letting the siblings sell it off for parts.

Phil listened carefully, nodding along, and when I finished talking, he said he’d been hoping I’d figure out a way to save the company because Dad spent twenty years building something good that deserved to survive.

Over the next week, we contacted all fifteen former employees through phone calls and text messages. Phil knew most of their numbers by heart since he’d worked alongside them for years.

Twelve of them agreed to come back once they heard Kelly and I were taking over completely and the siblings wouldn’t have any control over operations or decisions. The three who didn’t return had already found other jobs that paid better or were closer to home, which I understood even though it stung a little.

Getting Mr. Roger back as a client felt like the most important step. I called him and asked if he’d be willing to meet, and he invited me to his office that same afternoon.

His construction company occupied a big building downtown with his name on the front in bronze letters. When I walked in, he stood up from behind his desk and hugged me like I was actually his granddaughter, not just someone whose dad he’d hired for electrical work.

I explained that Kelly and I were taking over Dad’s business and wanted to prove we could maintain the same quality and reliability Dad was known for. Mr. Roger didn’t even hesitate before saying he’d give us a major commercial contract for a shopping center renovation he was starting next month.

He said Dad’s daughters running the company with his values meant more to him than going with some random contractor he didn’t know or trust.

Within two weeks, Mr. Roger had told half the business owners in town that we were continuing Dad’s work, and several of them reached out with smaller projects to test us out.

Kelly made a decision that surprised me, but also made perfect sense. She came to me three weeks after we started rebuilding and said she wanted to take a semester off from college to help run the business office full-time.

She’d been handling scheduling and client calls part-time while still trying to attend classes, and it was wearing her down to the point where she wasn’t doing either thing well. I felt guilty about her pausing school, but she insisted Dad would want us working together to save his company rather than her struggling through classes she couldn’t focus on anyway.

We were exhausted those first few months, learning everything as we went. I handled the technical work and client meetings since I’d been around the business since I was twelve and knew how electrical systems worked. Kelly managed the office, dealing with invoicing and scheduling and making sure everyone got paid on time.

The employees were patient with our mistakes, like when I underbid a job by $2,000 because I forgot to factor in permit costs, or when Kelly double-booked three guys for the same time slot. They remembered Dad teaching us when we were kids, showing me how to wire outlets in the warehouse, or letting Kelly practice answering phones during summer breaks.

Phil especially went out of his way to help, checking my estimates before I sent them to clients and covering for me when I messed up a timeline.

Nicolette stayed on as our accountant, which felt like a huge relief since neither Kelly nor I understood profit margins or tax obligations very well. She spent hours explaining how to read financial statements and why we needed to set aside money for quarterly taxes instead of spending everything that came in.

One afternoon, about six weeks into running things, she told us Dad would be proud of how fast we were learning and how hard we were working to preserve what he built. Kelly started crying right there in Nicolette’s office, happy tears for the first time in months, and Nicolette hugged her and said she meant every word.

Three months after Dad died, the business had stabilized enough that I could breathe without feeling like everything might collapse. We had steady contracts lined up for the next two months, most of our employees back and working regular hours, and enough money coming in to cover payroll and expenses.

We weren’t making the profit Dad did yet because we were still rebuilding our reputation and proving ourselves to clients who didn’t know us. But everyone was getting paid, the lights stayed on, and we were booking new jobs every week, which felt like a victory considering where we’d started.

I ran into Aunt Diane at the grocery store on a Saturday afternoon when I was buying coffee and frozen dinners because Kelly and I were too tired to cook real food. She was in the produce section looking at wilted lettuce, and when she saw me, her face went pale like she wanted to disappear.

We had an awkward conversation where she admitted the money from the house was already almost gone. She’d used most of it to pay off gambling debts she’d racked up at three different casinos, and now she was broke again with nothing to show for it.

She looked terrible, exhausted and ashamed, with dark circles under her eyes and clothes that didn’t fit right anymore.

Then she asked if Dad’s business might need another office person, her voice quiet and desperate.

I felt bad for her in that moment, seeing how far she’d fallen, but I also remembered her going through Dad’s office the day after his funeral and trying on Mom’s rings while calling us not real family.

I told Diane honestly that I couldn’t trust her after everything that happened during the estate battle. I explained that hiring her would be bad for employee morale since everyone who worked for us knew exactly how she and the other siblings had treated Kelly and me when Dad died.

She nodded like she expected that answer. She didn’t argue or try to change my mind, just walked away looking defeated with her shoulders hunched.

I stood there in the grocery store feeling guilty, but knowing I’d made the right choice because bringing her into the business would have been a disaster for everyone involved.

Kelly started having nightmares about a month after we moved into our apartment. She’d wake up screaming about the locksmith showing up at the house or about Uncle Robert saying we weren’t real family or about Aunt Marie wearing Mom’s jewelry and laughing.

Some nights I’d hear her crying through the bedroom wall and I’d go sit with her until she fell back asleep.

The grief counselor we found through our new health insurance from the business helped her process everything. Kelly went every Tuesday afternoon, and slowly the nightmares became less frequent. The counselor said Kelly was dealing with both regular grief from losing Dad and trauma from how his siblings treated us when we were most vulnerable, and that it would take time to work through both things.

Uncle Robert called me four months after the settlement. His voice nervous on the phone when he asked if we could talk.

I agreed to meet him at a coffee shop downtown, neutral territory, where neither of us had an advantage. I brought Zachary’s business card in my pocket just in case Robert tried something, but when he showed up, he just looked tired and sad, not angry or threatening.

He wanted to apologize properly without lawyers present, he said, because he’d been thinking about everything that happened and felt sick about his behavior.

Robert told me he’d spent his share of the house money paying off debts he’d accumulated over years of bad business ideas and poor financial choices. Now he was working as a manager at a hardware store, the first stable job he’d had in years, actually showing up on time and doing the work instead of looking for shortcuts.

He said losing Dad and then losing the potential inheritance had forced him to finally grow up at fifty-two years old, and he was ashamed of how he’d acted when Dad died, especially the things he’d said to Kelly and me about not being real family.

I listened to his words and watched his face, and I could tell he actually meant what he was saying about being sorry. His eyes looked different from how they did at the funeral—less angry and more sad—and his voice shook a little when he talked about how ashamed he felt.

But “sorry” doesn’t undo the damage he caused or bring back the weeks Kelly spent crying herself to sleep in our cramped apartment. “Sorry” doesn’t erase him showing up with a locksmith or calling us not real family while Aunt Marie tried on Mom’s rings.

I set my coffee cup down and looked at him directly. I told him I appreciated the apology and I believed he meant it, but I wasn’t ready for a relationship with any of them. And honestly, I might never be ready. Some things break too badly to fix, even with sincere apologies and regret.

Robert’s face fell, and he nodded slowly, looking down at his hands. He said he understood completely and he didn’t blame me for feeling that way.

Then he pulled out a pen and wrote his new phone number on a napkin, sliding it across the table toward me. He said if Kelly or I ever needed anything, anything at all, he hoped we’d consider calling him.

I took the napkin and folded it carefully, putting it in my pocket, but I didn’t promise to use it. I watched him stand up and walk toward the door, moving slower than I remembered, his shoulders hunched like he was carrying something heavy. He looked older somehow, more tired, like the last few months had aged him years instead of weeks.

Six months after Dad died, Kelly and I decided to host a proper memorial service. Not the funeral where his siblings showed up late and made speeches about a brother they barely knew, but something real for people who actually loved him.

We cleaned out the warehouse on a Saturday morning, moving equipment and supplies to make space, setting up folding chairs we borrowed from the church down the street. Kelly hung up photos of Dad, pictures from different years showing him at job sites with employees, holding us as babies, standing next to Mom before she got sick.

I brought in Dad’s favorite coffee maker from home and set it up on a table with cups and some cookies from the bakery he used to visit every Sunday.

The employees started arriving around ten, all fifteen of them, including the three who didn’t come back to work for us. Phil showed up first, wearing a tie—which I’d never seen before—carrying flowers. Mr. Roger came with his wife and he hugged both Kelly and me for a long time without saying anything.

A few of Dad’s other longtime clients showed up, people who’d known him for years and trusted him with their buildings and businesses. Dad’s old friend from the VA came, and the guy who owned the diner where Dad ate breakfast every Tuesday.

By eleven, the warehouse was full of people, maybe thirty in total, all talking quietly and looking at photos and sharing coffee.

Kelly and I stood up front together and I started by thanking everyone for coming. I told them this gathering was for people who actually knew Dad, who understood what kind of person he was beyond just his work or his money.

Kelly talked about Dad’s terrible jokes, the ones he told at dinner that made us groan but secretly love. She described his perfectionism about electrical work, how he’d redo an entire panel if one wire wasn’t perfectly straight, and how that same attention to detail showed up in everything he did, including making our lunches for school.

I shared stories about his quiet generosity, the way he’d hire someone who needed a second chance or pay for a client’s repair when they were struggling financially.

People laughed and cried and nodded their heads, recognizing the Dad we were describing.

Phil stood up next without being asked and walked to the front. His voice cracked a little when he started talking, explaining how Dad hired him right out of trade school twenty years ago when nobody else would take a chance on him. He said Dad taught him everything he knows about electrical work, about running a business, about treating employees fairly and with respect.

Phil described how Dad never yelled even when someone messed up, just showed them the right way and expected them to learn from mistakes. He talked about Dad’s integrity, his refusal to cut corners even when clients pushed for cheaper, faster work, and how that built a reputation everyone could be proud of.

Mr. Roger went next, telling stories from twenty-five years of business together. He talked about Dad’s honesty, how he’d tell you the real cost and timeline even if it meant losing the job, and how he never promised something he couldn’t deliver.

Mr. Roger’s voice got thick when he described Dad’s kindness, the way he checked on people and remembered details about their families and their lives.

Kelly and I both spoke again at the end, talking about Dad as a father who made us feel loved and supported every single day, who showed up to every school event and every important moment, who built a life where we always felt safe and valued.

None of Dad’s siblings attended the memorial. I sent Robert an email about it last week, a short message with the date and time, and he responded saying thank you for letting him know, but he didn’t think it would be appropriate for them to come.

Part of me felt a small hurt about their absence—some stupid part that still wanted them to care about Dad the way we do. But mostly it felt right that they weren’t here.

This gathering was for people who actually knew and loved Dad, not for people who saw him as a source of money and then abandoned him when he got sick. Everyone here had real memories, real stories, real grief. The siblings would just be pretending, performing sadness they didn’t actually feel.

And Dad deserved better than that, even in death.

The business kept growing steadily through the summer and into fall. By month eight, we were actually making profit after covering all expenses and payroll. The number still seemed small compared to what Dad was pulling in, but Phil explained that we were doing great for a company that basically started over from nothing six months ago.

I was able to give everyone small raises, just fifty cents an hour, but enough to show we appreciated them sticking with us through the chaos. The employees seemed genuinely happy to be back working together. Several of them told me they were proud to work for Dad’s daughters and continue his legacy, which made me tear up every single time.

We were getting new clients too. Not just the ones coming back, but people who heard about us from Mr. Roger and other satisfied customers. The reputation Dad built was carrying forward and people trusted us because we were his kids and we learned from him.

Kelly made a decision in September that surprised me. She told me she wanted to go back to school, but only part-time, taking classes in business management at the community college while still helping with office work.

She explained that she wanted to understand the company operations better, wanted to be able to help me more effectively with the financial side and planning side of things.

I asked if she was sure, if maybe she wanted to finish her degree full-time and do something else with her life instead of being stuck in Dad’s business.

Kelly shook her head firmly and said, “This isn’t being stuck. This is choosing to continue something meaningful.”

She’d found purpose in helping run Dad’s business, and it had given her a way to stay connected to his memory that felt positive and productive instead of just sad.

Watching her research classes and fill out enrollment forms, I realized she was healing in her own way, building something good out of the grief.

One afternoon in October, I was up on a ladder running wire through a ceiling when something clicked in my head. I was wearing Dad’s old tool belt, using techniques he taught me, solving problems the way he showed me years ago.

I looked down at Phil working below me and the client watching us both, and I realized I’d become exactly what Dad was. I’m an electrician running a small business and taking care of family.

It’s not what I planned for my life at twenty-one. I had vague ideas about maybe going back to school, maybe traveling, maybe figuring out what I actually wanted to do with my future.

But this feels right somehow. Feels like I’m where I’m supposed to be.

Every time a client compliments our work or thanks us for showing up on time or mentions they heard good things about us, I feel like Dad is proud of me. I’m carrying forward what he built, maintaining the standards he set, treating people the way he taught me to treat them.

Uncle Tony messaged me on Facebook in November. His message was long and rambling, talking about how his son had been sober for four months now and was really trying to turn his life around. Tony said his son needed a fresh start, needed someone to give him a chance, and he was asking if we might consider interviewing him for an entry-level position.

He promised his son was different now, more mature, more responsible.

I stared at the message for a long time before showing it to Kelly. She read it and immediately shook her head, saying absolutely not.

I told her we should at least think about it, maybe discuss it with Phil, but Kelly pointed out that Tony’s son already had a chance with Dad and he blew it by stealing and showing up drunk.

Phil agreed with Kelly when I brought it up at work the next day, explaining that bringing Tony’s son into the company would destroy morale and make everyone uncomfortable given the history.

I wrote back to Tony that evening, keeping my response polite but firm. I told him I was glad his son was doing better, but we couldn’t take that risk given what happened before and given how his father treated Kelly and me after Dad died.

Tony didn’t respond.

Aunt Marie called me two weeks later and I almost didn’t answer when I saw her name on my phone, but curiosity won and I picked up.

She was crying so hard I could barely understand her at first. When she finally calmed down enough to talk clearly, she told me her disability fraud had been reported to the state and they were investigating her. She might face charges, might have to pay back years of benefits, might even go to jail.

She asked if I told anyone about her working under the table at the salon, her voice accusing even through the tears.

I honestly told her no, I didn’t report her, though I won’t pretend I’m sorry it happened since she was committing fraud.

Marie started yelling then, calling me vindictive and cruel, saying I destroyed her life and I should be ashamed of myself.

I let her yell for a minute before I interrupted. I reminded her calmly that she tried on our dead mother’s rings while calling us not real family, that she demanded we move out in two weeks, that she showed zero compassion when Kelly and I were grieving and vulnerable.

I told her maybe she should look in a mirror before judging others about being cruel.

She hung up on me and I sat there holding my phone, feeling a mix of satisfaction and guilt that I couldn’t quite sort out.

Kelly walked past my open bedroom door right as I finished with Marie and I saw her stop in the hallway. She stood there for a second before coming in and sitting on the edge of my bed.

She asked if I was okay with how everything turned out.

I set my phone down and stared at it for a minute, trying to figure out how to answer that. I told her honestly that I didn’t know. We saved the business and secured our future. We had jobs and income and a path forward. But I destroyed Dad’s siblings in the process.

I used everything I knew about them, turned their employees and clients against them, manipulated situations to make them look worse than they already were. I’m not sure Dad would approve of my methods, even if he’d hate how they treated us.

Kelly sat quietly for a minute, picking at a thread on my bedspread. Then she said she thought Dad would understand why I did what I did, even if it makes us uncomfortable now.

She pointed out that I protected us when we were vulnerable and grieving. I honored his legacy by keeping the business running instead of letting them sell it off to the highest bidder. That matters more than being nice to people who were cruel when we needed family most.

I wanted to believe her, but I kept seeing Uncle Robert’s face when he realized the business was worthless without employees, Aunt Diane crying about her gambling debts, Uncle Tony getting fired again, Aunt Marie facing fraud charges.

I did that—not directly with Marie, but I set everything else in motion.

Ten months after Dad’s death, Kelly and I signed a lease on a small house with an option to buy. We used business profits and what’s left of our college funds for the deposit and first month’s rent.

The house was maybe half the size of the one we grew up in, with two tiny bedrooms and a kitchen that barely fit both of us at the same time. But it’s ours. Nobody can tell us to leave. Nobody can show up with a locksmith. Nobody can inventory our stuff like we’re thieves.

We spent a weekend moving in with Phil’s help, filling the walls with photos of Mom and Dad, arranging furniture we bought at the estate sale from our old house. Kelly hung Mom’s jewelry box on her dresser where she could see it every morning. I put Dad’s favorite coffee mug on a shelf in the kitchen, even though I’ll never use it.

The house didn’t feel like home yet, but it felt like ours, and that’s enough for now.

Phil pulled me aside one afternoon while we were working on a commercial job downtown. We were on a break, sitting in the truck, eating sandwiches, and he told me something that made my chest tight.

He said Dad used to talk about me taking over the business someday. Dad saw how I understood both the technical work and the client relationships. He hoped I’d want to continue what he built instead of going off to do something else.

Phil said Dad was proud of how I learned the trade, how I could talk to customers and make them feel confident in our work, how I remembered little details about their families and their properties.

Hearing this made me cry right there in the truck, with Phil pretending not to notice while I wiped my eyes with my sleeve. It confirmed that running the company is exactly what Dad wanted, even if the circumstances are terrible and wrong and nothing like how it should have happened.

I wish he could see us now. See that we’re making it work. See that his business is still running with his name on it.

Mr. Roger called me a few weeks later and asked if I wanted to grab coffee. We met at the same place where I first told him what the siblings were doing, and he said he wanted to offer me something.

He’d been running his construction company for forty years, and he thought he could teach me things Dad didn’t have time to cover. He offered to mentor me in business operations, sharing lessons about contract negotiations, employee management, handling difficult clients, managing cash flow, building a reputation.

He checked in every week after that—sometimes over coffee, sometimes at job sites, sometimes just phone calls where he answered my questions about problems I was facing.

He became like a grandfather figure, filling a space that Dad’s death left empty.

When I messed up a bid and lost money on a job, he talked me through what went wrong without making me feel stupid. When an employee caused problems, he helped me figure out how to handle it fairly. When a client tried to negotiate down our price after work was done, he coached me through standing firm.

I started teaching Kelly basic electrical work on weekends the same way Dad taught me when I was younger. We worked on small projects at our rental house, replacing outlets and light fixtures, running new circuits for the kitchen.

Watching her learn to strip wire and make connections made me feel connected to Dad in a way that’s bittersweet but beautiful. She’s terrible at it initially, mixing up hot and neutral wires, stripping too much insulation off, forgetting to turn off breakers before working. But she’s determined to understand every aspect of the family business, asking questions about why we do things certain ways, taking notes in a little notebook she carries around.

Dad taught me the same way—patient and thorough, never rushing, always explaining the reasons behind the rules. I tried to do the same for Kelly, hearing Dad’s voice in my head when I explained why we twist wires clockwise or why we use wire nuts instead of tape.

A year after Dad’s death, the business was actually thriving. We had twenty employees now, five more than when Dad was alive. We had steady contracts with repeat clients, new customers calling because they heard good things, and a reputation for quality work that matched what Dad built over two decades.

Kelly handled the office full-time now, managing schedules and invoices and customer calls, while I ran jobs and handled the technical side.

We got invited to a local business awards ceremony, and when they called our names for small business growth, Kelly and I walked up together to accept the award. I held the plaque and looked out at the audience of other business owners, and I wished desperately that Dad could see this moment.

He’d be proud. He’d probably cry. He’d definitely tell everyone at the ceremony about how his daughters took over his company and grew it bigger than he ever managed.

We visited Dad’s grave on the anniversary of his death, bringing flowers and a thermos of coffee to share. We sat in the grass next to his headstone, and I told him everything that happened over the past year.

I talked about the legal battle, the settlement, rebuilding the business, hiring new employees, winning the award. I admitted out loud that I’m not sure I did everything right. Maybe I was too ruthless with his siblings. Maybe I should have tried harder to work with them instead of destroying them.

I don’t know if he’d approve of my methods, even though I think he’d hate how they treated us.

Kelly sat next to me, pulling grass and listening while I talked to Dad’s headstone like he could hear me. Part of me hopes he can. Part of me is glad he can’t see what I became in order to protect us.

Kelly spoke up after I finished, her voice quiet. She said she thought we should try to forgive the siblings eventually—not for their sake, but for ours—so we’re not carrying around anger forever.

She said holding on to hurt and rage will poison us over time, make us bitter and suspicious, turn us into people Dad wouldn’t recognize.

I’m not ready for that yet. I still feel the sting of Uncle Robert calling us not real family while standing in our living room with a locksmith. I still see Aunt Marie trying on Mom’s rings with greedy fingers. I still hear Uncle Tony talking about selling Dad’s business fast and cheap.

But I appreciate that Kelly is thinking about healing rather than staying stuck and hurt. Maybe someday I’ll get there, too. Maybe someday I’ll be able to think about them without feeling my jaw clench and my stomach turn.

But not today.

Today I’m still angry, still protective, still ready to fight if any of them come back looking for more.

We sit in the car for a while without starting the engine, just looking at Dad’s headstone through the windshield.

Kelly breaks the silence first, asking what I think Dad would say about everything if he could see us now.

I turn the key and pull out of the cemetery slowly, thinking about her question while navigating the familiar roads back toward our house. The business truck passes us going the opposite direction—probably Phil heading to a job site—and I realize Dad would recognize that truck, but not much else about our lives now.

I tell Kelly I think he’d be proud we survived all this. Proud we kept his business running when everyone expected us to fail or sell it off. He’d probably be a little surprised, too, maybe even amused that his two quiet daughters who used to hide behind him at business meetings turned into women who negotiate contracts and manage employees and don’t take crap from anyone anymore.

Kelly nods and wipes her eyes, saying she hopes he’d understand why we had to be so hard on his siblings, why we couldn’t just let them take everything.

I reach over and squeeze her hand, telling her Dad taught us to stand up for ourselves and protect what matters. And that’s exactly what we did.

Life isn’t perfect now, not even close. We’re still grieving every single day. Still learning how to run a business without Dad’s guidance. Still dealing with the complicated mess of family betrayal and legal battles that left scars on both of us.

But Kelly and I are building something good together, something that honors Dad’s memory by living with the same honesty and hard work he showed us every day of our lives.

The business is growing steadily, with new contracts coming in monthly. We’re financially stable for the first time since Dad got sick. And most importantly, we have each other, which is exactly what Dad would have wanted most.

We’re not just surviving anymore, barely scraping by and hoping things get better. We’re actually thriving, running a successful company that still bears Dad’s name on every truck and business card, carrying forward his values of quality work and fair treatment that made clients trust him for decades.

Some days are still really hard, when we see something that reminds us of Dad or when we have to make a big decision without his advice. But we face those hard days together, and that makes all the difference.