My Father Lived In My House Rent-free For 9 Years, Then Changed The Locks To Kick Me Out. I Evicted Him And Accidentally Bought His Only Backup Home. Am I The Jerk For Leaving Him Homeless?

The Eviction

I called the police immediately. My lawyer was already pulling up property records on her phone, building our case. I wasn’t shaking anymore. I was ready for war.

The responding officer listened while my lawyer showed him property records, inheritance documents, everything proving I owned the house. The police gave dad a simple choice: open the door and let me in or get arrested for criminal trespassing on top of everything else.

Dad finally opened up, looking like he’d aged 10 years overnight. Carmen was crying in the background while this random woman, Becca, sat in the corner looking uncomfortable as hell. The officer explained that Dad was being evicted for changing locks and refusing property owner access.

Dad tried every excuse in the book. Nowhere to go. Lived there for 9 years. Claimed grandpa had verbally promised him the house.

“Do you have any documentation of this verbal promise?”

The officer asked. Dead silence. I almost felt bad watching dad realize how weak his position was.

“Any written agreement about your tenancy here?”

More silence.

“Any proof you’ve been paying rent or contributing to property ownership?”

Dad was scrambling.

“I’ve been maintaining the property. I fixed the back door last year.”

“With your own money or money provided by the property owner?”

The truth came out. I’d been paying for every repair, every improvement, every single expense for 9 years. Dad had been living completely free while I built a property empire around him.

Watching dad try to explain the situation was pathetic. He kept insisting he had rights as a long-term resident, that this was family business that didn’t need police involvement. The officer just stared at him like he was speaking gibberish.

“Who changed the locks?”

the cop asked. Dad claimed he didn’t remember the company name. Obvious lie. I could see him calculating whether admitting it would make things worse.

The officer made some calls and tracked down the locksmith within an hour. This sketchy operation had done the work without verifying ownership or getting proper documentation. When the locksmith found out he’d been hired to lock out the actual property owner, you could hear him panicking about his license over the phone.

I pressed charges against both my dad and the locksmith. Dad for illegal tampering and preventing property owner access. Locksmith for failure to verify ownership.

The officer was writing up the reports while I stood there watching my relationship with my father officially end. Part of me felt sick about it, but I also felt relieved that the games were finally over.

Meeting Becca

While dad and Carmen were packing their stuff, I got a closer look at this Becca character. Mid-30s, nervous energy, kept checking her phone like she was expecting bad news. Nothing about her screamed mother fighting for custody.

I decided to test the story directly.

“So what’s the timeline on getting your kids back?”

I asked her. She looked at Carmen then back at me.

“It’s complicated. The court process takes time.”

Red flag number one. Vague answers. When a real mother would have specific dates, court schedules, detailed timelines burned into her memory.

I kept pushing.

“How many kids?”

I asked. Another glance at Carmen.

“Just one, a daughter.”

“How old?”

Long pause.

“She’s eight now.”

The whole interaction felt wrong. A mother fighting for custody would be talking non-stop about her kid, showing pictures, explaining the legal situation. This woman was giving me bare minimum answers like she was making it up on the spot.

Then Carmen stopped packing her stuff and snapped.

“Oh give me a break,”

She barked, stepping between us like she owned the place.

“You’re really going to interrogate her like she’s on trial after everything we’ve been through?”

She pointed right at me, voice rising.

“You’re a disgusting selfish little brat with a bank account. Your mother would roll in her grave if she saw what you’ve become, hoarding rooms and money while your father’s on the street and your stepsister is fighting for her kid. You think this house makes you powerful? It just makes you heartless.”

I didn’t respond but she kept going louder now.

“You didn’t build this. Rex did. Your precious grandpa. And you’re too cowardly to admit that without him you’d be nothing. Just a spoiled kid playing landlord.”

Before I could even open my mouth the cop near the door raised his hand.

“Ma’am,”

he said firmly.

“That’s enough. This isn’t your house and you’re one more outburst away from being removed for obstruction. I suggest you stop talking.”

Carmen clamped her mouth shut but the look she gave me could have melted steel. I didn’t flinch. I made a mental note to dig into Becca’s story later because nothing added up.

Right now though the only goal was getting them out for good.