My father was gone. I couldn’t shake the thought. He had always been my anchor, but in recent years, the weight of his debts had become too much for me to bear.
Now, the house we had shared was about to be repossessed, and I lacked the strength to fight it. I found myself sitting in the notary’s office, barely listening as an elderly man read through the will.
Then, something caught my attention.
“A house,” the notary said. “Not the one you’re living in, but another property your father owned.”
My hands trembled as I picked up the documents. The address was unfamiliar.
Why had he never mentioned this? Was this his way of making amends for everything?
Determined to uncover the truth, I set out for the house the next day.
When I arrived, I was struck by the sight of it. It was old but well-kept, a place that had clearly been cared for.
“This is it,” I murmured, gripping the key tightly.
I inserted the key into the lock, but it wouldn’t turn. The locks had been changed. Frustrated, I stepped around the side of the house, peering through a window for a glimpse inside.
Suddenly, the front door flew open, making me jump.
A woman, likely in her sixties, stood in the doorway. Her sharp gaze held no warmth, and it was clear she wasn’t pleased to see me.
“I… uh… this is my house,” I stammered, holding up the key. “My father left it to me.”
“Your house?” she scoffed. “I’ve been living here for twenty years. I’ve paid the bills, repaired the leaks, and fixed the roof. This isn’t your house, and I’m not leaving.”
I tightened my grip on the key. “Look, I don’t know who you are, but I have the legal paperwork. This property belongs to me.”
“And you think I’m just going to walk away?” she shot back. “I’ve already lost everything—my home, my father. This is all I have left.”
Frustrated, I called my lawyer. He confirmed that the house was legally mine.
“I’ll handle everything after the weekend,” he assured me.
I glanced at the woman again, my resolve hardening. “I’m staying here until this is sorted out.”
Living under the same roof with her was like stepping onto a battlefield I hadn’t prepared for.
Strange things started happening. One morning, while I was brushing my teeth, the water suddenly stopped running. When I confronted her, she merely smirked.
My keys, shoes, and even my phone charger mysteriously vanished, only to turn up in the oddest places—hidden in the pantry, stuffed beneath the couch.
By Monday morning, I was drained, but I refused to back down. I had a meeting with my lawyer, and I needed things to go my way.
Then, just as I was about to leave, I saw my white dress—one I had carefully laid out the night before—stained with dirt and grass.
“You’ve got to be kidding me!” I shouted, storming inside.
“You threw my clothes in the mud!” My voice trembled with anger. “I haven’t done anything to you, and yet you treat me like I’m the enemy! Why?”
Her expression hardened. “Because you don’t belong here. This house isn’t yours. It was never meant to be yours.”
I stared at her, confused. “What are you talking about?”
Her voice cracked as she spoke. “This was my home. Your father… he took everything from me. He took *you* from me.”
A chill ran down my spine.
“He told you I was dead, didn’t he?” she whispered. “He never forgave me for leaving. But I was your mother. *I am your mother.*”
The words hit me like a blow. The woman I had spent days resenting, the one who had turned my life upside down, was the mother I had never known.
She lowered her gaze. “I made a mistake. I thought I could have a better life with someone else. But that man… he left me, too. When I tried to come back, your father wouldn’t forgive me. He took you, and the court gave him everything.”
My anger melted away, leaving only an aching emptiness.
The day of my lawyer’s decision arrived, and the verdict was clear—Deborah was the rightful owner. Her years of maintaining the house and paying the bills made her legal claim stronger than mine.
I packed my suitcase, preparing to leave. As I reached the front door, I could feel her watching me from the kitchen.
“I don’t want you to go,” she said softly. “I’ve spent years blaming myself, hating myself for what I did. And when you showed up, I let all of that out on you. But you’re my daughter, Emily. I don’t want to lose you again.”
I turned to face her.
“I want us to try,” she continued. “Even if it’s messy, even if it’s not perfect. I just want a chance to fix this. I’m so sorry…”
Tears stung my eyes. “I’m sorry too, Mom…”
And for the first time, the word felt real.