When my late father left me a house I had never heard of, I thought it was a mistake until I discovered that a woman lived there who said it was hers. What she revealed to me shattered everything I knew.
The rain beat down relentlessly on the rooftops as I pulled my coat tighter around me and hurried towards the notary’s office.
My father was gone. I couldn’t get that idea out of my head. He had always been my rock, but in recent years, that rock had crumbled under the weight of debts I couldn’t even begin to understand.
Finally, the house we had lived in together was about to be repossessed, and I no longer had the strength to keep fighting.
“What’s left?” I asked myself as I reached the office door, stopping to take a deep breath.
“Probably nothing more than another reminder of how much we’ve lost.”
The hall smelled of dust and old paper, and the dim light made the walls covered with faded paintings seem even more inert. I was shown into the notary’s office, where an elderly man gestured for me to sit down.
“Let’s get started,” he said, flipping through a stack of documents.
I hardly listened as he read the will. My mind wandered, reliving moments with my father, how he always told me everything, or so I thought.
Suddenly, the notary’s voice cut through my thoughts. “A house.”
“What?” I looked up. ”Sorry, did you say a house?”
“Yes,“ he replied, sliding a document towards me. ‘Not your current residence, but another property belonging to your father.’
I stared at the paper, the words blurring for a moment.
”Another house? He never mentioned it. How could he hide something like that?”
My hands trembled as I looked at the documents. The address was unfamiliar.
Why hadn’t he told me? Was this his way of trying to make up for everything?
One thing was clear. I had to see that house. It seemed to me the only way to discover the truth.
***
The next day, a Friday, I decided to face the unknown. Taking a day off work, I drove along a winding road lined with golden-leaved trees. They stood tall and silent, as if they were witnesses to something I could not yet comprehend.
When I finally arrived, the sight of the house sent a chill down my spine. It looked old, but not neglected. The large windows captured the light, and the freshly painted porch contrasted with the moss-covered roof, giving it an almost fairytale charm.
However, the uneasiness in my chest grew heavier.
“This is it,” I muttered to myself, grabbing the key the notary had given me.
The key didn’t work. I frowned and tried again. They had changed the lock. Biting my lip, I took a step to lean out of a window, hoping to get a better look inside.
It was then that the door opened with a force that made me jump.
“Can I help you?” asked a stern voice.
At the door was a woman, probably in her sixties, with sharp features and an expression that made it clear she was not happy to see me. Her eyes, although tired, had a defiant sparkle.
“I… er… this is my house,” I stammered, showing her the key. ”It was left to me by my late father.”
“Your house? I’ve been living here for twenty years. I’ve paid the bills, fixed the leaks and mended the roof. This is not your house and I’m not leaving.”
I turned the key hard. “Look, I don’t know who you are, but I have the papers. Legally, this house belongs to me.”
“Paperwork means nothing to me,” he replied. “I’ve put my blood, sweat and tears into this place. Do you think I’ll leave just because you have a piece of paper?”
I moved closer, trying to keep my voice steady. “And you think I’m going to let you keep it? I’ve lost my house, my father… everything! This is all I have left.”
She looked at me, her mouth tight. For a moment I thought she was going to slam the door in my face. Instead, she exhaled sharply and lowered her shoulders slightly.
I called my lawyer, who assured me that I had a legal right to the house.
“I’ll sort it out after the weekend,” he said.
I looked back at the old woman. ‘I’ll stay here until we resolve this.”
“All right. Do you want to play house? Go ahead. But don’t think I’m going to roll out the welcome mat for you. By the way, I’m Deborah,’ she murmured, stepping aside enough for me to enter.
The air inside smelled faintly of wood polish and of time. It wasn’t just a house. It was Deborah’s house. But it was also mine.
The tension between us was palpable, like a storm about to break. I wasn’t sure how it would play out, but one thing was clear: neither of us was thinking of backing down.
***
Living under the same roof as Deborah seemed like a battle I hadn’t signed up for. She seemed to enjoy finding ways to back me into a corner. Deborah would pound around the kitchen at midnight, making the pots and pans clang as if she were preparing for a feast, but there was no feast.
In the morning, the water mysteriously disappeared just as I was brushing my teeth.
“Really, Deborah?“ I muttered under my breath, looking at the dry tap.
The look of arrogance on her face when I confronted her was almost comical.
“It must be these old pipes,” she said, shrugging her shoulders. But the twinkle in her eye gave her away.
She would lose my keys, my shoes and even my phone charger. I would find them hidden in strange places, like the pantry or under the sofa. It was petty, but effective.
Even so, despite all my irritation, there was a glimmer of sympathy. She seemed lonely, even desperate, as if that house was the last bit of control she had over her life.
On Monday morning I was mentally exhausted, but determined to stand firm. I had a meeting with my lawyer that day and I needed everything to go well. My clothes were perfectly ironed and ready. At least, that’s what I thought.
I went out to get it from the clothesline where I had left it airing all night, but instead, I found it in a pile soaked in mud. The white dress that I had prepared meticulously was now stained with dirt and grass.
“Are you kidding me?” I shouted, storming back inside.
Deborah was sitting in the kitchen, casually drinking her tea. She barely looked at me.
“Is something wrong?”
“You threw my clothes in the mud.” My voice cracked with rage.
She raised an eyebrow and her calm demeanor only fueled my frustration. ”I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I slammed my soaking wet clothes down on the table.
“What’s wrong with you? I haven’t done anything to you, and you’re treating me like a criminal! Why?”
Her teacup clinked against the saucer as she put it down.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she said coldly. ‘This house isn’t yours. It was never meant to be yours.”
I was frozen. ’What do you mean?”
She stood up and raised her voice. “This was my house! Your father! He stole everything from me. He took our daughter and left me with nothing.”
“What?” The word barely escaped my lips.
Her eyes burned with anger and pain.
“He told you I was dead, didn’t he? He couldn’t forgive me for what I had done. But I was your mother. I am your mother.”
Her hand trembled as she took a small bracelet out of her pocket. She handed it to me, her lips trembling. “Look at this.”
I took it and my fingers trembled as I turned it over. My name and date of birth were engraved on the delicate surface. I gasped.
“Why?” I asked, my voice barely audible. “Why would I do that?”
Her anger softened, replaced by a pain so deep that it was almost unbearable to witness.
“Because I left,” she said, her voice breaking. ”I made a mistake. I thought I could have a better life with someone else. But that man… He abandoned me too. When I came back, your father refused to forgive me. He kidnapped you and the court gave him everything.”
I couldn’t speak. The woman I had spent days resenting, the one who had made my life impossible, was the mother I never knew.
She went on, with tears in her eyes. “He left me this house. It was his way of holding on to what we once had. A reminder of the love we shared… and perhaps his way of thanking me for bringing you into the world. But he couldn’t live here again. Not after everything. This house held too much of our past, too much pain for him to face.”
All the anger I had felt evaporated, replaced by sorrow and confusion.
***
The days leading up to the court date were tense but calm. Deborah and I moved around the house like two strangers on opposite sides of a battlefield. We barely spoke, and when we did, it was brief and curt.
I spent the time thinking about the house, about my father and about what Deborah had revealed to me about our shared past.
When the day arrived, I felt my heart heavy. The sentence was clear: Deborah had the right to the house. Her years living there, paying the bills and maintaining it made her the rightful owner.
I felt the weight of defeat as I stood outside the courthouse. The house, the only thing my father had left me, was no longer mine.
Back at the house, I dragged my suitcase to the front door. Deborah was in the kitchen and I could feel her watching me as I prepared to leave.
“Well,” I said, breaking the silence, ”I guess this is goodbye.”
“Wait,” said Deborah, in a soft voice.
I turned, confused. ‘What is it?”
“I’ve been thinking,’ she said slowly. ”I don’t want you to leave. I’ve spent years blaming myself, hating myself for everything I did. And when you showed up, I took it all out on you. But you’re my daughter, Emily. I don’t want to lose you again.”
Her words stopped me in my tracks. “Are you serious?”
“I want us to try. I want us to fix it, even if it’s not perfect. I’m so sorry…”
I stared at her, feeling the weight of her words. Then, without thinking, I took a step forward and hugged her. At first she stiffened, but then she relaxed and hugged me tightly.
“I feel it too, Mom…”
Over the next few weeks, we cleaned, sorted through old boxes, and dug up memories. Little by little, the house went from being a battlefield to a place of healing. I learned that family is about forgiving and finding a way to start over.
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