The House She Thought Was Hers

My name is Alexandra Moren. I’m twenty-nine, and on a rainy Monday in downtown Seattle, I stood in my office staring out at windows streaked with gray water, trying to breathe through the echo of my sister’s voice. I’d built my pharmaceutical company from nothing over seven years—three floors of fluorescent light and stainless steel, late nights and FDA paperwork, entire relationships traded for deadlines. My beach house in Canon Beach was supposed to be the one place where the pressure stopped. Salt air. Waves. Quiet. Mine.

But the quiet had been shattered, and I was still trying to process how.

The week before, everything had seemed fine. Normal, even, by the standards of my relationship with my family. I’d driven down to Portland for what was supposed to be a simple Sunday brunch—the kind my mother organized every few months to maintain the illusion that we were close. The restaurant was one of those places with exposed brick and overpriced avocado toast, the kind Victoria loved because it photographed well.

I arrived exactly on time, which meant I was the first one there. My father showed up ten minutes later, his silver hair perfectly combed, his posture rigid in that way that suggested he’d rather be anywhere else. We made small talk about traffic and the weather, the conversational equivalent of treading water.

Then Victoria swept in twenty minutes late, trailing perfume and apologies that didn’t sound sorry at all. She was wearing cream-colored linen that probably cost more than my monthly utilities, her hair in beachy waves that took an hour to achieve but were meant to look effortless. At forty-one, she’d perfected the art of looking like success even when she had none.

“Sorry, sorry,” she sang, air-kissing Mom before settling into her seat. “I was on a call with an investor. You know how it is.”

I didn’t know how it was. Victoria’s “investors” had a tendency to evaporate the moment actual money or work was involved. But I smiled and nodded because that’s what you did at family brunch.

We ordered. Mom talked about her book club. Dad checked his phone under the table. Victoria scrolled through her own phone openly, occasionally showing Mom photos of furniture or fabric swatches.

“What’s all this for?” Mom asked, squinting at a picture of a mid-century modern credenza.

Victoria’s eyes lit up. “Oh, I’m redecorating. New chapter, new space, you know?”

“What space?” I asked, more curious than suspicious.

That’s when she lifted her mimosa like she was making a toast and said, casually, “I’m moving in on Wednesday afternoon. Dad already gave me the final approval.”

The restaurant didn’t stop. Silverware kept clinking. Conversations continued at other tables. But inside my chest, something went very still.

“Moving in where?” I kept my voice level.

“The beach house.” She said it like it was obvious, like we’d discussed this and I’d somehow forgotten. “Canon Beach. It’s perfect timing, actually—I need somewhere quiet to work on my new wellness brand, and the ocean air will be so healing.”

I looked at my father. He was staring at his eggs Benedict like they contained the secrets of the universe.

“Dad?”

He cleared his throat. “Victoria needs a place right now, Alex. The house is just sitting there most of the time anyway.”

“It’s my house.”

“Well, technically it’s a family property—”

“No.” I set my fork down carefully. “Technically, it’s my property. My name is on the deed. I paid for it. Every dollar came from my company.”

Victoria’s smile didn’t waver. “You’re being dramatic. It’s just for a few months while I get my business off the ground. You’re hardly ever there anyway.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what is the point?” Her tone shifted, just slightly, from sweet to sharp. “That you get to have this beautiful house sitting empty while your own sister is struggling? That doesn’t seem very fair.”

Mom jumped in, her voice taking on that placating tone I’d heard my entire childhood. “Alex, sweetheart, maybe you two could share the space? It’s big enough for both of you.”

“I don’t want to share it. It’s mine.”

“See?” Victoria turned to our parents, her expression wounded. “This is exactly what I’m talking about. Alex has always been selfish with her success. She acts like the rest of us are beneath her.”

“That’s not—” I stopped myself, recognizing the trap. If I defended myself, I’d look defensive. If I stayed silent, her version became the truth. “I’m not discussing this.”

“Because you know I’m right.”

I stood up, placing my napkin on the table with more force than necessary. “I need to go.”

“Alexandra—” Mom started.

But I was already walking toward the exit, my heart pounding, my hands shaking with an anger I couldn’t afford to show. Behind me, I heard Victoria’s voice, bright and innocent: “I don’t know why she’s being so difficult about this.”

I drove back to Seattle in silence, my knuckles white on the steering wheel. By the time I reached my apartment, I’d already made three decisions.

First: Victoria was not moving into my house.

Second: I needed to change the locks immediately.

Third: I was going to protect what was mine, no matter what it cost me.

The beach house had been my reward to myself after my company’s first profitable year. I’d spent months looking for the right property—something close enough to Portland and Seattle for weekend trips but far enough that I could pretend the world didn’t exist. When I found it, a weathered cedar-shingled cottage perched on a bluff overlooking the Pacific, I knew immediately it was the one.

I’d renovated it myself. Well, not physically—I’d hired contractors—but every decision had been mine. The paint colors, the furniture, the layout. I’d installed floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room so I could watch storms roll in from the ocean. I’d built a deck with a firepit where I could sit with wine and watch the sunset turn the sky pink and orange. I’d furnished it with pieces I actually loved instead of whatever was cheapest or most practical.

It was the first place in my life that felt entirely mine. Not my parents’. Not my company’s. Mine.

And Victoria thought she could just take it.

Monday morning, I called a locksmith. By Tuesday afternoon, every lock on the property had been changed. But that wasn’t enough. Victoria still had connections, still had our father’s ear, still had the ability to make my life complicated in ways I couldn’t always predict.

So I opened the security app I’d installed months earlier.

I’d put the system in after Christmas, when I’d driven down to the house for a quiet New Year’s and found evidence that someone had been there. Nothing obvious—just small things. Wine bottles in the recycling that I didn’t recognize. Towels folded differently than I’d left them. My expensive skincare products nearly empty when they’d been half-full the last time I’d visited.

At the time, I’d assumed it was Victoria. She’d sweet-talked a key out of me a year earlier, claiming she wanted to “check on the place” while I was traveling for work. I’d been stupid enough to give her a copy, and apparently stupid enough to think she’d only use it with permission.

The security system was a high-end model, the kind usually installed in commercial properties. Motion sensors. Hidden cameras. Automatic alerts. It could be programmed for specific scenarios, armed remotely, and configured to contact emergency services if certain conditions were met.

I spent Tuesday night programming it like I was designing a clinical trial: zones, sensitivity levels, recording parameters, automatic emergency protocols. Wednesday morning at 6:00 a.m., the house would go into lockdown mode. Any attempt to enter without disarming the system first would trigger immediate recording and alerts.

Then I booked a room at a small inn two miles from the house. If Victoria was going to try something, I wanted to be close enough to respond but far enough that I couldn’t be accused of being there.

By Wednesday morning, I was set up in my room, laptop open, security feeds pulled up on my screen. The house looked peaceful on camera—empty and still, morning light filtering through the windows, the ocean visible in the background.

I tried to work, opening reports and emails that needed my attention. But my eyes kept drifting back to the security feeds, watching for movement that didn’t come.

Until 1:30 p.m.

A moving truck appeared at the end of my driveway, rumbling slowly toward the house. My stomach dropped.

Two movers climbed out first, both wearing company uniforms and looking uncertain about the narrow driveway. Then Victoria emerged from the passenger side, dressed in designer athletic wear that probably cost more than the movers made in a week. She was on her phone, gesturing animatedly, pointing at my front door like a queen directing staff.

I watched, frozen, as she marched up to the entrance and pulled out a key. The old key, the one that no longer worked.

She tried it once. Twice. Jiggled it aggressively.

Nothing.

On camera, I could see her face shift from confident to confused to annoyed. She tried again, harder this time, like the lock was deliberately being difficult. Then she pulled out her phone.

My phone buzzed a second later.

Victoria: “Your locks are broken. Let me in.”

I stared at the message, my hands trembling slightly. Part of me wanted to call her, to have it out right there over the phone. But I knew how those conversations went. Victoria was an expert at flipping scripts, at making herself the victim and me the villain.

Instead, I typed back one sentence: “Private property. Unauthorized entry will be treated as trespassing.”

I watched her read it on camera. Watched her face go from annoyed to furious. She immediately called, and I let it go to voicemail. Then she called again. And again.

The movers stood by awkwardly, clearly unsure what to do. One of them said something I couldn’t hear, and Victoria waved him off impatiently, still trying my number.

Finally, after ten minutes of calling and texting, she turned to the movers and said something sharp. They started loading boxes back into the truck.

Victoria stood on my porch, staring at the door like she could will it open through sheer force of personality. Then she turned and looked directly at one of my cameras.

“This isn’t over, Alex,” she said, her voice cold and clear. “You can’t keep me out forever.”

Then she got in her car and drove away.

I thought that would be the end of it. I should have known better.

By noon the next day, Victoria had turned the internet into her megaphone.

It started with a Facebook post, carefully worded to sound hurt rather than angry: “When your own sister locks you out of a family property because she can’t stand to share, you realize how lonely success can make people. Praying for her heart to soften.”

Within an hour, it had fifty comments. By that evening, it had been shared two hundred times.

Then came Instagram: a photo of the beach house—one she must have taken months ago—with a caption about family betrayal and how wealth changes people. She tagged my company’s official account.

Twitter was worse. She’d somehow found my professional profile and quote-tweeted one of our recent product announcements with: “Interesting that @AlexMorenPharm cares so much about ‘improving lives’ but won’t help her own family.”

My phone started buzzing with messages from colleagues asking if everything was okay. My assistant forwarded me an email from an investor who’d seen the posts and wanted clarification. My PR team scheduled an emergency call.

And through it all, Victoria kept posting. Photos of herself looking contemplative by the ocean. Stories about how she’d been “turned away” from a place that was supposed to be a refuge. Comments on every post reinforcing her narrative: that I was cold, that I’d changed, that success had made me forget where I came from.

None of it was true. But truth didn’t matter when Victoria was writing the story.

My attorney called on Thursday.

“Alex, I’m looking at your sister’s social media, and we need to talk about this.”

“I know,” I said tiredly. “I’m handling it.”

“She’s accusing you of locking her out of jointly owned property. Is there any truth to that?”

“No. The house is solely in my name. I have the deed, the mortgage documents, everything.”

“Good. Keep those handy. But Alex—she’s also claiming your father gave her permission to move in. That could complicate things if she tries to argue some kind of verbal agreement or family arrangement.”

“There was no agreement. She announced it at brunch like it was already decided. I never agreed to anything.”

“Document everything. Every text, every call, every interaction. If this escalates, we’ll need a paper trail.”

“It’s not going to escalate,” I said, trying to convince myself as much as him.

I was wrong.

The first few days after the moving truck incident were quiet. Too quiet. Victoria’s social media campaign continued—daily posts about family and betrayal and forgiveness—but she didn’t try to contact me directly.

I started to relax, just slightly. Maybe she’d realized she wasn’t going to win this one. Maybe she’d moved on to her next scheme.

Then came Wednesday night, exactly one week after the first attempt.

I was back in Seattle, working late in my home office, when my phone lit up with an alert from the beach house security system.

Motion detected. Back deck.

My heart jumped. I pulled up the camera feed on my laptop, and there she was.

Victoria, climbing over the railing from the beach side, dressed in dark clothes—black leggings, a dark hoodie, her hair pulled back. She moved confidently, like she’d planned this, like she’d rehearsed it.

She went straight to the sliding glass door, testing it. Locked. Then she moved to a window, pulling something metallic from her pocket. A crowbar? A pry tool?

My hands were shaking as I hit the speaker function on the security app.

“Victoria. Leave. Now.”

She froze, then snapped her head toward the camera. Her eyes found it immediately, bright with fury even in the low light. She marched closer, close enough that I could see her breath in the cold air.

“This is my house now,” she said, staring straight into the lens. “Dad signed papers. He added me to the deed. You can’t stop me anymore.”

For a second, everything inside me went cold.

Had he? Would he do that without telling me?

Then logic kicked in. Dad couldn’t add someone to a deed without my signature. That’s not how property law worked. She was bluffing.

But the fact that she was here, that she’d come back in the dark with tools, that she was willing to break into my house—that wasn’t a bluff.

I was already dialing 911 before I consciously decided to do it.

“I need to report an attempted break-in,” I said when the dispatcher answered. My voice was steadier than my hands. “Someone is trying to force entry into my property at…” I rattled off the address, watching Victoria on camera as she returned to the window with her prying tool.

“Are you currently at the property, ma’am?”

“No, but I have security cameras. I’m watching it happen live.”

“Units are on the way. Stay on the line.”

Three minutes. That’s how long it took for two sheriff’s deputies to arrive, their lights painting the deck in red and blue.

Victoria dropped the tool like it had burned her, and her face transformed instantly—shock, then tears, her voice cracking into practiced helplessness as she turned toward them.

“Thank goodness you’re here,” she cried, one hand pressed to her chest. “My sister locked me out of our family property. I’ve been trying to get my things—”

One deputy glanced up at my camera—he must have noticed the red recording light—while the other knelt to examine the window frame.

“Ma’am,” the first deputy said, his tone professionally neutral, “this is private property, correct?”

“It’s family property,” Victoria insisted. “My father gave me permission—”

“Is your name on the deed?”

“Well, no, but—”

“Have you been given written permission by the property owner to be here?”

Victoria’s pause was everything. “My sister is being unreasonable—”

“That’s not what I asked.” He straightened, his hand moving toward his belt. “Ma’am, there are fresh marks on this window frame, and you were observed on camera attempting to pry it open. That’s attempted unlawful entry. You can come with us voluntarily, or we can detain you. Your choice.”

I watched Victoria freeze on my screen, the performance stalling—just for a heartbeat—as she realized she might not be able to talk her way out of this one.

“This is ridiculous,” she said, but her voice had lost its conviction. “You’re arresting me for trying to access family property?”

“We’re detaining you for attempted breaking and entering,” the deputy corrected. “Please put your hands behind your back.”

“I want to call my lawyer.”

“You can do that from the station.”

I watched as they cuffed her, as they led her down the deck stairs toward their patrol car, as she turned back once to stare directly into my camera with an expression I couldn’t quite read. Rage? Disbelief? Fear?

All three, maybe.

The call with the dispatcher ended. The deputies drove away, Victoria in the back seat. The deck was empty again, quiet except for the sound of waves I couldn’t hear through the camera.

I sat in my dark office for a long time, staring at the empty feed, my heart still pounding, trying to process what had just happened.

My sister had tried to break into my house. My sister was in police custody. My sister had finally crossed a line even she couldn’t uncross.

And I felt… nothing. No satisfaction, no vindication. Just exhausted.

My phone rang ten minutes later. Dad.

I almost didn’t answer. But curiosity won.

“Alexandra.” His voice was tight. “Do you know where your sister is?”

“Police custody, I assume.”

Silence. Then, carefully: “What did you do?”

“What did I do?” I laughed, a sound with no humor in it. “I called the cops on someone who was trying to break into my house with a crowbar. What did you think I’d do?”

“She’s your sister.”

“She’s a criminal. At least, she is now. Breaking and entering is a crime, Dad.”

“She told me you two had worked this out. That you’d agreed to let her stay at the house.”

“When did she tell you that?”

“Last week. After brunch.”

“Did you actually ask me? Or did you just take her word for it?”

More silence.

“This is ridiculous,” he said finally. “You need to call the police and tell them it was a misunderstanding.”

“It wasn’t a misunderstanding. She broke into my property, on camera, after I explicitly told her she wasn’t welcome. That’s not a misunderstanding, that’s a crime.”

“She’s family, Alexandra.”

“Then maybe family should respect boundaries.”

“She needs help right now. She’s struggling financially—”

“That’s not my problem.”

“When did you become so cold?”

The question hung in the air between us, heavy and accusatory. And for once, I didn’t rush to defend myself, didn’t scramble to prove I wasn’t the villain he was implying I was.

“I became ‘cold,'” I said quietly, “the moment I realized that being warm just meant letting people take whatever they wanted from me. Goodnight, Dad.”

I hung up before he could respond.

Victoria was released the next morning on her own recognizance, charged with attempted burglary and trespassing. My attorney called to walk me through what would happen next: court dates, possible plea deals, the option of pursuing a restraining order.

“I’d recommend it,” he said. “She’s escalated twice now. First the social media campaign, then the physical break-in. That’s a pattern.”

“Will it stop her?”

“It’ll give you legal recourse if she violates it. And honestly, Alex, having it on record protects you. If she tries anything else, the courts won’t see it as a family squabble—they’ll see it as a pattern of harassment and violation of court orders.”

I agreed. The restraining order was filed that afternoon.

Victoria’s response came via her Facebook page that evening: “When your own sister uses the legal system as a weapon against you, you realize how far some people will go to protect their privilege. Praying for peace.”

The comments were split this time. Some people were still on her side, calling me heartless. But others had started asking questions. Why had she been arrested? What had she actually done? If it was really a family property, why were the police involved?

The narrative was cracking, just slightly.

The court hearing for the restraining order was scheduled for two weeks later. I took the day off work, drove down to Portland, and sat in a courthouse waiting room with fluorescent lights and linoleum floors, trying not to think about how surreal this all was.

Victoria arrived fifteen minutes late, dressed in a cream-colored dress that screamed “innocent victim.” She didn’t look at me as she took her seat on the opposite side of the room.

When we were called in, the judge—a tired-looking woman in her fifties—reviewed the paperwork with the expression of someone who’d seen this exact scenario a hundred times before.

“Ms. Moren,” she said, looking at Victoria, “you were arrested for attempting to break into a property owned solely by your sister. Is that correct?”

“Your Honor, there’s been a misunderstanding. It’s a family property—”

“Is your name on the deed?”

“No, but—”

“Did you have written permission from the property owner to be there?”

“No, but my father said—”

“Your father doesn’t own the property.” The judge looked down at her notes. “You were observed on video surveillance attempting to pry open a window after being explicitly told to leave. You’ve also engaged in a sustained social media campaign against the property owner. Is that accurate?”

Victoria’s lawyer jumped in. “Your Honor, my client was under the impression that she had permission to access the property. This is a family dispute, not a criminal matter.”

“The attempted break-in makes it a criminal matter,” the judge said flatly. She looked at me. “Ms. Moren, you’re requesting a restraining order requiring your sister to stay at least five hundred feet from your person and property. Correct?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Granted. Ms. Moren,” she turned back to Victoria, “you are hereby ordered to maintain a distance of no less than five hundred feet from your sister and her property. This includes the residence in Canon Beach, her place of business, and her personal residence in Seattle. Violation of this order may result in arrest. Do you understand?”

Victoria’s face had gone pale. “Your Honor, this is—”

“Do you understand?”

“…Yes.”

“Good. Bailiff, next case.”

It should have ended there. I wanted it to end there.

But Victoria had never been good at accepting defeat.

Three weeks after the restraining order was granted, I got a call from my mother.

“Alexandra, we need to talk about your sister.”

“I have nothing to say about Victoria.”

“She’s struggling, honey. She lost her apartment because she couldn’t pay rent. She’s been staying on friends’ couches. She needs help.”

“Then help her. But don’t ask me to.”

“You have the means—”

“Stop.” My voice came out sharper than I intended. “I have the means because I worked for it. Victoria has had the same opportunities I had—more, actually, because she had a twelve-year head start. What she does with those opportunities is her choice, not my responsibility.”

“She’s your sister.”

“She tried to break into my house, Mom. She’s spent months telling strangers on the internet that I’m a terrible person. She’s made my life hell because I wouldn’t give her something that was mine. At what point do I get to stop being responsible for her failures?”

Mom was quiet for a long moment. Then, softly: “When did this family become so broken?”

“I don’t know, Mom. But I didn’t break it.”

Summer came. Then fall. The restraining order held. Victoria’s social media went quiet—whether because she’d lost interest or because her lawyer had advised her to stop, I didn’t know and didn’t care.

I went back to my life: my company, my work, my routines. I drove down to the beach house on weekends, sat on the deck with wine and watched the sunset, slept with the windows open so I could hear the waves.

It felt peaceful in a way it hadn’t before. Not because Victoria was gone—though that helped—but because I’d finally stopped waiting for permission to claim what was mine.

My father and I didn’t speak for six months. When he finally called, it was brief and awkward.

“I wanted to see how you were doing.”

“I’m fine.”

“Good. That’s… good.” A pause. “Your sister’s doing better. She got a job. She’s staying with a friend.”

“I’m glad she’s okay.”

Another pause. “I owe you an apology, Alex. I should have backed you up. I should have told Victoria no from the start.”

I didn’t respond immediately. Part of me wanted to say it was fine, that I understood, that we could move past it. But another part—the part that had spent years swallowing my feelings to keep the peace—refused to make this easy for him.

“Yeah,” I said finally. “You should have.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

We talked for a few more minutes, carefully avoiding any topic that might lead back to Victoria or the house or the restraining order. It wasn’t forgiveness, not quite. But it was something.

A year after the night Victoria tried to break in, I hired a property manager for the beach house. Not because I was afraid—the security system was still active, and the restraining order was still in effect—but because I realized I didn’t want to spend my weekends worrying about whether someone was going to show up uninvited.

The property manager handled everything: maintenance, cleaning, monitoring. And when I did go down, I could actually relax.

One weekend in late October, I drove down on a Friday evening and arrived just as the sun was setting. The house was exactly as I’d left it—clean, quiet, mine.

I made dinner, poured a glass of wine, and took it out to the deck. The ocean was restless, waves crashing against the rocks below, the air cold and sharp with salt. I wrapped myself in a blanket and sat, watching the last light fade from the sky.

My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.

Unknown: “I saw your beach house listed as a vacation rental. Did you sell it?”

I stared at the message for a moment, then blocked the number. I didn’t need to ask who it was.

The house wasn’t listed as a rental. Never had been. Victoria was fishing, still trying to find ways to get information about my life, still trying to find an opening.

But I was done leaving openings.

I deleted the message, set my phone down, and went back to watching the waves.

Two years later, I expanded my company into a new facility. Three years later, we launched a drug that would change treatment protocols for a rare autoimmune disorder. Four years later, I was featured in Forbes.

Victoria sent a congratulations message through a mutual friend. I didn’t respond.

My mother occasionally brought her up—carefully, testing the waters. “She’s doing well. She started her own business.” “She’s seeing someone. He seems nice.” “She asks about you sometimes.”

I listened politely and said nothing.

Because here’s what I learned from all of this: some people will always see your boundaries as punishments. They’ll frame your self-protection as cruelty, your limits as selfishness. They’ll tell a story where they’re the victim and you’re the villain, and no amount of explaining will change that narrative.

But you don’t need to change it. You just need to stop participating in it.

Victoria wanted my house, my resources, my capitulation. She wanted me to fold the way I’d always folded, to prioritize keeping the peace over keeping my dignity.

And when I finally said no—really, truly, irreversibly no—it felt like the first honest thing I’d done in years.

Last month, five years after the attempted break-in, I got a letter in the mail. Handwritten, my name and address in Victoria’s looping script.

I almost threw it away unopened. But curiosity won.

Inside was a single page, the handwriting uneven in places, like she’d started and stopped several times.

Alex,

I don’t expect you to read this, and I don’t expect you to respond. But I needed to write it anyway.

I’m sorry. Not sorry I got caught, or sorry things didn’t go my way—sorry for what I did. For trying to take something that wasn’t mine. For turning our family against you when you were just trying to protect yourself. For making you the villain when I was the one who couldn’t accept no for an answer.

I’ve spent the last few years in therapy trying to figure out why I did what I did, and the answer is simpler than I wanted it to be: I was jealous. Of your success, your independence, your ability to build something from nothing. And instead of dealing with that jealously in a healthy way, I tried to take what you’d built.

I know this doesn’t fix anything. I know I crossed lines that can’t be uncrossed. But I wanted you to know that I see that now. I see what I did, and I’m sorry.

I hope you’re happy, Alex. You deserve to be.

Victoria

I read it twice, then set it down on my kitchen counter and stared at it for a long time.

It wasn’t the apology I’d imagined, back when I still believed one might come. It wasn’t theatrical or defensive or full of justifications. It was just… sorry.

I didn’t know what to do with that.

I still don’t.

The letter is in a drawer now, filed away with the court documents and the security footage and all the other artifacts of that year. I haven’t responded. I don’t know if I will.

Because here’s the thing about closure: sometimes it doesn’t come from the other person saying the right words. Sometimes it comes from realizing you don’t need them to say anything at all.

I have my house. I have my company. I have a life I built with my own hands, a life nobody can take from me because I finally learned to protect it.

And Victoria has her apology, written in a letter I may never answer.

Maybe that’s enough. Maybe it isn’t.

But either way, I’m okay.

THE END

Sophia Rivers

Sophia Rivers is an experienced News Content Editor with a sharp eye for detail and a passion for delivering accurate and engaging news stories. At TheArchivists, she specializes in curating, editing, and presenting news content that informs and resonates with a global audience.

Sophia holds a degree in Journalism from the University of Toronto, where she developed her skills in news reporting, media ethics, and digital journalism. Her expertise lies in identifying key stories, crafting compelling narratives, and ensuring journalistic integrity in every piece she edits.

Known for her precision and dedication to the truth, Sophia thrives in the fast-paced world of news editing. At TheArchivists, she focuses on producing high-quality news content that keeps readers informed while maintaining a balanced and insightful perspective.

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