“My Relatives Are Waiting for Me to Die to Take My House: But I Made Sure They Won’t Get It”

At 62 years old, I find myself living alone in a small, cozy house in a quiet suburb of Ohio. My life has been a series of ups and downs, but the one constant has been my independence. I have no children or spouse, though I was once married. My story is not unique, but it is mine, and it has shaped me into the person I am today.

I met my ex-husband, Tom, when I was 27. We worked together at a local manufacturing plant. He was charming, funny, and seemed to have a good head on his shoulders. We dated for a year before he proposed, and I thought I had found my happily ever after. We got married in a small ceremony with just close friends and family. I was 28 and full of hope for our future.

However, my dreams were shattered just six months into our marriage. Tom started coming home late, making excuses about work and business trips. One evening, he brought his mistress into our home while I was there. The betrayal was too much to bear. I packed my bags and left that night, never looking back.

The divorce was messy and painful, but it taught me a valuable lesson about self-reliance. I threw myself into my work and eventually saved enough to buy my own house. It wasn’t much, but it was mine, and it represented my hard-earned independence.

Over the years, I’ve had little contact with my extended family. They never approved of my decision to leave Tom and live on my own. They saw me as a failure for not remarrying or having children. Despite their disapproval, I built a life for myself that I was proud of.

Recently, however, I’ve noticed a change in their behavior. My cousins and even some distant relatives have started visiting more frequently, under the guise of “checking in” on me. They bring small gifts and offer to help with chores around the house. At first, I thought they were genuinely concerned about my well-being, but it didn’t take long for me to see through their facade.

One evening, after a particularly awkward visit from my cousin Linda, I overheard her talking on the phone as she left my house. She was discussing my property and how it would be divided among the family once I was gone. The realization hit me like a ton of bricks: they were waiting for me to die so they could take my house.

I felt a mix of anger and sadness. These were people who had shown little interest in my life for years, and now they were circling like vultures, waiting for me to pass away so they could claim what I had worked so hard for. It was a bitter pill to swallow.

Determined not to let them win, I decided to take action. I consulted with a lawyer and made sure my will was airtight. I left my house to a local women’s shelter that had helped me during my darkest days after the divorce. It felt right to give back to an organization that had given me so much support.

I also made arrangements for my belongings to be donated to various charities. My family would get nothing from me except the knowledge that they had failed in their greedy quest.

As the days go by, I continue to live my life on my terms. My health isn’t what it used to be, but I’m still here, still fighting. My relatives may be waiting for me to die, but I’ve made sure they won’t benefit from it.

In the end, my story doesn’t have a happy ending. It’s a tale of betrayal and greed, but also one of resilience and determination. I’ve learned that sometimes the best you can do is protect what you’ve built and ensure that your legacy is one of kindness and strength.