When I bought my stepmom’s late mother’s hoarder house, I knew it would take years to transform. What I didn’t expect was that, after pouring my heart, soul, and savings into restoring it, my stepmom would show up demanding the house back.
I stepped into the house, and the smell of mildew, old food, and something sour I couldn’t place hit me. The front door barely opened because piles of junk were pressed against it.
Shoes, newspapers, and empty boxes spilled into the entryway, and I had to push my way inside. Every surface was covered by layers of random junk. I couldn’t see where the living room ended, or even where to put my feet.
“This is worse than I thought,” I muttered to myself, standing frozen in the chaos.