When my late father left me a house I’d never heard of, I assumed there had to be some kind of mistake—until I discovered a woman living there who claimed it was hers. What she revealed shattered everything I thought I knew about my family.
The rain poured in relentless sheets as I hurried toward the notary’s office, clutching my coat against the chill. My father was gone. The man who had been my rock for as long as I could remember had crumbled under the weight of debts and secrets I never fully understood. Now, the home we’d shared was being repossessed, and I’d resigned myself to having nothing left.
The notary’s office smelled of dust and old paper. An older man behind a desk flipped through a stack of documents, his brow furrowed. As he began reading my father’s will, my thoughts wandered to my dad—his reassuring presence, the way he always seemed to have all the answers. Or so I thought.
Then the notary said something that pulled me back to the present. “There’s another property.”
I blinked. “Another property? Are you sure?”
He slid a document across the desk. “Your father owned a second house. It’s now yours.”
The words blurred as I stared at the paper. My father had never mentioned another house. Why would he keep this from me? My hands trembled as I took the address. One thing was certain—I needed to see it for myself.
The next day, I drove through winding roads framed by golden autumn leaves. When I arrived, the house was both beautiful and unnerving. It was old but well-kept, with large windows that caught the sunlight and a freshly painted porch that stood in sharp contrast to its weathered roof. Yet, an inexplicable heaviness settled in my chest as I approached.
The key the notary had given me didn’t fit. Frustrated, I circled the house, peering through the windows. That’s when the door swung open.
“Can I help you?” a stern voice demanded.
Standing in the doorway was a woman in her sixties, her sharp features framed by gray hair. Her weary eyes held a defiant spark.
“This is my house,” I said, holding up the key. “It was left to me by my father.”
Her gaze hardened. “Your house? I’ve lived here for twenty years. I’ve paid the bills, repaired the roof, and made it my home. You might have paperwork, but this place is mine.”
We argued, neither of us willing to yield. My lawyer assured me I had a legal claim, but the woman—Deborah, as she introduced herself—refused to leave. Begrudgingly, she let me stay, though the tension between us was unbearable.
Continue reading on next page…