Months later, I surprised her with a visit. I found Ava scrubbing floors while her in-laws lounged, barking orders. “You missed the hallway,” Linda called. My heart sank.
“They’re just staying for a while,” Ava said. But they’d been there since the wedding, using the car, enjoying the house—while Ava did everything.
I called a meeting. “You’re not guests,” I told them. “You’ve lived here for months and done nothing.” When they claimed it was Jacob’s house, I said, “No. I bought it. It’s mine.”
They were gone within days.
Ava and I spent the week reclaiming her space. We cleaned, laughed, and danced in the kitchen. When I handed her the car keys, she smiled and whispered, “I forgot what it felt like to be me.”
I kissed her head. “You’re my daughter. And no one gets to forget that.”
