After My Father’s Death, I Evicted His Longtime Partner: My Family Thinks I’m Cruel

“You’re not welcome here anymore, Linda. I want you out by the end of the week.”

My voice echoed in the living room, bouncing off the walls that had seen so many Christmas mornings, awkward teenage birthdays, and long silences after my mother died. Linda just stood there, her suitcase half-packed at her feet, lips trembling. She looked small, like she’d shrunk in the days since Dad’s heart gave out. I felt nothing. Or maybe I felt everything all at once—anger, relief, guilt—so much that it numbed me.

She whispered, “Evan, please. I have nowhere else to go.”

I stared at her, searching for even a drop of sympathy, but my mind was a storm. Just three days before, I’d buried my father. The memory of his casket lowering into the hard, February ground seared itself into my brain. My cousin Jess had gripped my hand, and my aunt Martha dabbed at her eyes, but all I could think was: Why am I not crying? Where did all my love for him go?

I was ten when Mom died. She faded away over a year, her hair falling out, her voice getting softer, her hugs weaker. I would have given anything to keep her, but cancer didn’t care what I wanted. Dad changed overnight. He stopped cooking dinner. I started microwaving ramen noodles and eating cereal straight from the box. Then, two years later, Linda moved in. She wore perfume that made my nose itch and left stacks of self-help books on the coffee table.

“You need to let go of your anger, Evan,” she’d say, her voice syrupy, but I would just stomp upstairs and slam my door, clutching Mom’s old scarf. Dad seemed happier with her, but I watched him drift away from me, one football game, one missed parent-teacher conference at a time. Linda filled the house with laughter and new routines, but I never let her close. Not after Mom.

Now, at 28, I was the one with the keys. The house belonged to me. Dad’s will was clear—everything to his only son. Linda was a footnote: “No provision.” I stood in the living room the morning after the funeral, the smell of stale flowers and cold coffee in the air. My phone vibrated with messages—“So sorry for your loss”—but I ignored them. I had a job to do.

“Evan, I know this house means a lot to you, but it’s been my home too. For fifteen years. Can’t we work something out?” Linda’s voice cracked.

I shook my head. “You’re not family. My father made his choice. I want my house back.”

She tried to argue, but I’d already decided. I wanted her gone. I wanted my childhood back, the years before Linda, before the walls were painted a different color, before Dad’s laughter sounded different. Maybe if she left, I could finally grieve properly, finally let myself miss him.

But the rest of the family didn’t see it that way. Jess called that night. “Evan, what the hell? You can’t just throw her out. She’s got nowhere to go.”

“She’s not my responsibility,” I snapped. “She’s not even related to us.”

“Dad would hate this,” Jess whispered. “You know that, right?”

Would he? I honestly didn’t know anymore.

The next morning, I found Linda sitting at the kitchen table, staring at an old mug of coffee. “I loved your father, you know,” she said. “He was my whole world.”

I didn’t answer. I just watched the sunlight crawling across the floor, wishing it would burn away the bitterness stuck in my chest.

By Friday, her things were packed into her battered Corolla. She paused at the door, looking back at the family photos on the wall—Dad and Linda at Niagara Falls, Dad at my college graduation, Mom’s faded portrait in the corner. For a split second, I saw her as a person, not an intruder. I almost said something—almost—but I shut the door instead.

The silence in the house was deafening. I wandered from room to room, expecting to feel vindicated, but all I felt was emptiness. The walls still smelled of Linda’s perfume. Dad’s slippers sat by his recliner, untouched.

A week later, the family group chat exploded. “You’re heartless,” Aunt Martha wrote. “She took care of your father for years.” Jess sent me a long email about compassion and forgiveness. I read it twice, then deleted it.

I started sleeping in my old room, surrounded by childhood relics—my baseball trophies, Mom’s scarf, the poster of the Grand Canyon I’d taped up when I was twelve. I thought about Linda, out there in some motel, alone. Was I really just protecting my inheritance, or was I punishing her for trying to fill a space that could never be filled?

The next Sunday, I drove past the diner where Linda worked weekends and saw her through the window. She looked tired, older. For the first time, I wondered if I’d made a mistake. Was this what Mom would have wanted? Was this what Dad would have wanted?

I’m still living in the house, surrounded by ghosts. My family doesn’t call as much anymore. Sometimes I catch myself reaching for the phone to call Linda, to apologize, but I never do.

Was I cruel, or just broken? Does justice matter more than kindness? I can’t help but wonder—if you were in my shoes, what would you have done?