When my dad passed, he left me his house and savings. My partner, careless with money, suddenly talked marriage and selling the house to “start fresh.” When I refused to share, he called me selfish. I stood firm—love isn’t a shortcut to inheritance. Then within a few weeks, he packed up his stuff and left.
At first, I was crushed. We’d been together for three years. I truly believed he was the one. But looking back, I realize I’d been holding that relationship together with hope and excuses.
He always had a new scheme. One month it was flipping NFTs, next it was opening a smoothie bar in Bali. He never stuck to anything longer than a couple of months, and somehow, I always ended up footing half the bill.
The house my dad left me was old but full of charm. Wood-paneled walls, creaky stairs, a tiny garden my mom once filled with marigolds. It needed repairs, sure, but it was home. It had soul.
After he left, I sat on the porch for hours that night, just watching the streetlights flicker. I expected to feel lonely. But what I felt was… peace. For the first time in a long time, no one was asking me to sacrifice myself for their dream.
