My Stepdaughter Demanded I Transfer All Her Late Dad's Assets to Her Name – I Did, but She Didn't Like It

George's absence lingers in our home, his presence held in the fabric of the shirt that Mariana clings to every night. But it wasn’t his passing that devastated her—it was the shocking demand from her stepdaughter, Susan, for his possessions. When Mariana finally relented, an unexpected turn of events left Susan furious while Mariana felt an odd sense of closure.

Moving forward after losing someone dear is never simple. Sometimes, I still hear my beloved husband George’s voice whispering in my thoughts. Each morning, I wake up grasping his favorite shirt, his scent faintly lingering in the cloth. But while I was still consumed by grief over losing him, what my stepdaughter did completely broke me…

I’m Mariana, 57 years old, and for 25 wonderful years, I was married to George. He was an amazing man, and he had a daughter, Susan, who is now 34, from his first marriage.

Our bond with Susan had always been good. She even called me "Mom," which filled the void in my heart since I never had a child of my own. To me, she wasn’t just someone else’s child—I loved her like she was truly mine.

When Susan married the man she chose for herself, George and I were thrilled. But our happiness was short-lived. Soon after, our world fell apart when George was diagnosed with a fatal illness.

At first, Susan visited regularly—every week. Then her visits dwindled to once a month. Before I knew it, she had stopped coming entirely. The only time she reached out was through occasional phone calls to ask about his condition.

Then, one day, she asked something that ripped my heart apart. "How much time does he have left?"

I gripped the phone tightly, my hands shaking. "Susan, your father is not an object with an expiration date."

Anxious and sad elderly woman covering her face | Source: Midjourney

"I just need to know, Mom. My schedule is packed... I can’t visit often," she said nonchalantly.

"Too busy?" I repeated, my voice trembling with disbelief. "Too busy to see your father who’s dying?"

She exhaled sharply. "I’ll try to come soon, alright?"

But that "soon" never arrived.

Then came the dreaded call. The hospital informed me that George had passed away peacefully.

Hearing those words crushed me. My beloved George was gone, and my world collapsed.

What made it even worse? Susan didn’t even show up for his funeral. When I called her, she had her excuse prepared.

"Mom, I just had a baby last month," she explained, her tone distant. "My doctor advised against long-distance travel because of some health concerns."

I swallowed hard, struggling to hold back tears. "But Susan, it’s your father’s funeral. Don’t you want to say goodbye?"

"I can’t jeopardize my baby’s health," she responded coldly. "I’m sure you understand."

I didn’t understand, not at all. But I simply nodded to myself, forgetting she couldn’t see me. "Of course, sweetheart. Take care."

As I sat beside George’s coffin, reality weighed down on me. Our connection—mine and Susan’s—felt irreparably broken.

Half a year later, a sudden loud knock startled me. When I opened the door, Susan and her husband Doug stood there, accompanied by a serious-looking man in a suit.

Without greeting me, Susan walked in. "Mom, we need you to sign some papers."

I frowned in confusion. "What kind of papers?"

Doug handed me a pile of documents, including a blank sheet. "Just sign these. They’ll transfer everything into our names."

I took a step back, my heart thudding in my chest. "Excuse me? What are you talking about?"

Susan crossed her arms. "Dad’s property, Mom. We’re here to collect what’s ours."

Their audacity left me momentarily speechless. If only George had left a will, I wouldn’t have found myself in this situation. I would have ensured Susan was cared for, no question.

But this? The entitlement in their voices, the assumption that I’d simply give in—it was too much.

"No," I said, my voice steady. "I want you both out of my house immediately. Don’t ever come back with these demands."

Susan’s expression twisted with rage. "You can’t do this! You’re not even my REAL mother!"

Her words struck me like a physical blow. I staggered back, my vision blurring with tears. "Susan, after everything I’ve done for you?"

"Just do the right thing and hand over what belongs to me," she snapped.

I inhaled sharply, my patience wearing thin. "Get out. Your father would be ashamed of the person you’ve become. I’m grateful George isn’t alive to witness this."

Susan shouted, her voice laced with fury. "How dare you! Dad was MY father, not yours! You have no right to his things!"

"This is my home, and I’m done with this conversation. Leave, now!" I commanded.

Still, they refused to budge. That’s when my neighbor, hearing the commotion, stepped in. "You heard her! Get lost before I call the police."

With a final glare, Susan spat, "This isn’t over, Mariana! You’ll regret this!"

As I collapsed onto the couch, my heart felt hollow. How had things come to this? Where had our love gone? Had greed really turned Susan into this stranger?

With shaking hands, I picked up George’s framed photo from the table, tears clouding my eyes. I traced his familiar smile, whispering, "Oh, George… why did you leave me alone?"

Days passed, and Susan’s persistence didn’t waver. She bombarded me with calls and messages. Exhausted, I decided to give in—just to be done with it.

I met with my lawyer, determined to settle things. But then, an unexpected truth surfaced.

A week later, Susan stormed into my house, fuming. "HOW DID YOU DO THIS?" she bellowed. "Three grand and an old car? Where’s the rest?"

I feigned confusion. "What do you mean?"

She shoved a document in my face. "This pathetic inheritance! Where’s everything else? The house? Dad’s SUV? The farmhouse?"

That’s when I understood. My lawyer had uncovered something I never knew—George had put everything in my name years ago.

"Mrs. Anderson," my lawyer had explained, "Your husband ensured everything belonged to you. The only things left in his name were three thousand dollars and an old Mustang. The rest is yours."

When I shared this with Susan, her face contorted with disbelief. "This isn’t fair! You tricked me!"

I simply smiled. "No, Susan. You got exactly what you asked for. Your father’s assets. And now, I’m keeping what he left for me."

In the weeks that followed, I made a choice. I sold everything—our house, the car, the farmhouse. With the money, I purchased a beautiful villa far away, starting anew.

Not long after, an old friend called. "Mariana, Susan tried to sue you. But she lost. Everything was legally yours."

I sighed, unsurprised. "I figured as much."

Weeks turned into months, and I embraced my new life—traveling, making new friends, finding peace. Until one day, I got a call from an unfamiliar number.

"Mrs. Anderson?" a man’s voice said. "Susan wants to meet you."

A chill ran through me. "No," I replied firmly. "Tell her I have nothing left to say."

I hung up, knowing that for the first time in a long time—I was truly free.