For days, I said nothing. My parents sent photos and cheerful updates from their trip, completely unaware that their spending spree had already ended. On the fifth day, my mother left an angry voicemail demanding that I fix the declined card, accusing me of ruining Chloe’s vacation. I saved the message. Then I called my aunt Denise, my father’s sister and the only adult in my family who had ever treated me with fairness. I told her everything, my voice steady in a way that surprised even me.

When I finished, she didn’t hesitate. In exchange, the deed had been transferred to my name. It had been framed as a formality, a temporary measure. I had never forgotten. They had. With that knowledge, my decision crystallized. I sold the house. When they returned from Hawaii, I waited in my car as they pulled into the driveway and saw the SOLD sign. My mother’s face collapsed. My father shouted. Chloe hurled insults. I remained calm. I told them the truth: the house was not theirs, and it never had been. I gave them two choices—move out and become independent, or face criminal charges for fraud. They left within forty-eight hours.