That night, after Rick had finally left, I walked through the house slowly, my fingers trailing along the walls, the furniture, the memories. It felt surreal. For so long, I had been a stranger in my own home, tiptoeing around someone who had no right to be here. Now, the space was mine again.

I ended up in the kitchen, standing in front of the fridge, but I wasn’t hungry. Instead, I opened the cabinet above the sink and pulled down my mother’s old tea set. It was slightly chipped, well-used, and filled with memories of late-night talks and quiet mornings. I boiled some water, inhaling the familiar scent of chamomile.

As I sipped, I let the weight of everything settle. I had fought for my home. I had won. But the victory wasn’t as sweet as I imagined. I still felt the echoes of the past year—the loneliness, the frustration, the helplessness. It wasn’t something I could shake off overnight.

I took my tea to the living room and curled up on the couch, pulling my mother’s blanket around me. For the first time in a year, I let myself cry. Not just for her, but for everything I had lost, for the girl I had been before Rick came in and took over.

By morning, the house felt different. Lighter. I stood in the doorway of what used to be Rick’s room, now just an empty space. His scent still lingered, but I knew it wouldn’t for long. I’d open the windows, air it out, make it mine again.

I spent the next few days reclaiming my space. I went through every drawer, every shelf, removing every trace of him. I found more of my mother’s belongings tucked away in forgotten corners, hidden beneath Rick’s junk. Framed photos, letters, even a few old recipe cards she had written in her neat, careful handwriting.

I placed everything back where it belonged. The house started to feel like home again.

A week later, I found myself sitting in my mother’s old chair, a book in my lap, the soft hum of the radio playing in the background. The peace was something I had almost forgotten. But now, it was mine to keep.

Rick had called a few times, left a couple of pathetic voicemails, but I didn’t respond. He wasn’t my problem anymore.

One evening, I visited my mother’s grave. I sat down beside her headstone, running my fingers over the engraved letters of her name.

“I did it, Mom,” I whispered. “I took back what was ours.”

The wind rustled through the trees, the setting sun casting a golden glow across the grass. I closed my eyes, breathing in the quiet.

For the first time in a long time, I felt free.