When my father passed, I sent my son Matt to the will reading. While I packed up Dad’s things, I didn’t expect chaos to await me at home.

Jessica—my daughter-in-law—was lounging on my patio, sipping coffee. “This is my house now,” she declared, waving a document in my face. Then she dumped my belongings across the lawn.

“You should’ve gone to the will reading,” she sneered.

Shocked, I stood frozen. Dad would never give the house to her.

Just then, Matt arrived, stunned by the mess. “Jess, what is this?”

She smirked. “And one more thing—I want a divorce.”

Matt’s expression darkened. “You’re a greedy, vindictive witch.”

“You’re a weak mama’s boy!” she snapped.

“I’m calling the cops if you don’t leave,” she threatened.

I called Dad’s lawyer, trembling. “Did he really leave her the house?”

The lawyer chuckled. “No, Hattie. That document was fake. Your father set a trap to reveal her true colors.”

I laughed through tears. Jessica’s face fell.

Matt turned to her. “Looks like Grandpa’s plan worked.”

She begged, but he walked away.

As we gathered my memories from the lawn, I realized—Dad left me something better than a house: clarity. He protected us, even in death.