I felt it was a mistake when my late father left me a house I had never heard of, but then I discovered a woman living there who claimed it as her own. Everything I knew was destroyed by what she disclosed.
As I pulled my coat tighter and hurried toward the notary’s office, the rain continued to beat down on the rooftops.
My dad had left. I kept thinking about it. He had always been my pillar of support, but in recent years, the weight of incomprehensible debt had caused that pillar to crumble.
Eventually, the house where we had shared our home was about to be repossessed, and I was at my weakest.
“What’s left?” As I arrived at the office entrance and stopped to inhale deeply, I pondered.
“Probably nothing but another reminder of how much we’ve lost.”
The hallway’s weak lighting made the walls adorned with faded artwork appear even more lifeless, and it smelled of dust and old paper. An older man indicated for me to sit down as we entered the notary’s office.
He responded, looking through a pile of papers, “Let’s get started.”
I hardly paid attention as he read the will. My thoughts drifted back to my dad and how, I believed, he always told me everything.
The notary’s voice abruptly interrupted my train of thought. “A home.”
“What?” I jerked my head up. “Sorry, did you mention a house?”
He slid a document in my direction and said, “Yes.” “Another property your father owned, not your present home.”
As I gazed at the paper, the words briefly became hazy.
“An additional residence? He never brought it up. How could he conceal such a thing?”
As I took up the documents, my hands shook. It was a strange address.
What kept him from telling me? Was this an attempt on his part to atone for everything?
It was obvious. This house had to be seen. It seemed to be the only way to find out.
I decided to confront the unknown on Friday, the following day. I took a day off from work and drove along a winding road that was bordered by trees with golden leaves. They appeared to be witnesses to something I was still unable to comprehend, standing tall and silent.
I got a chill when I saw the house when I eventually got there. Despite its age, it didn’t appear abandoned. The light filtered through the wide windows, and the newly painted porch contrasted with the roof covered with moss, giving it a beauty straight out of a storybook.
But the discomfort in my chest increased.
“This is it,” I whispered to myself as I held onto the key that the notary had given me.
The key was inoperable. I scowled and tried once more. Someone had replaced the lock. I bit my lip and moved around to gaze through a window in the hopes of gaining a better view of the interior.
That’s when the door swung open with a force that made me jump.
“May I assist you?” A firm voice called out.
A woman, likely in her fifties, stood in the doorway. Her angular features and face conveyed that she wasn’t pleased to see me. Despite her fatigue, there was a spark of defiance in her eyes.
I held up the key and stammered, “I… uh, this is my house.” “My late father left it to me.”
“Your residence? This is where I’ve lived for twenty years. I’ve fixed the roof, addressed the leaks, and paid the bills. I’m not going anywhere, and this isn’t your home.”
I gripped the key tighter. “Look, I have the documents, but I have no idea who you are. I am the legal owner of this house.”
She retorted, “Paperwork means nothing to me.” “I’ve invested my tears, sweat, and blood in this location. You think I’ll go away just because you have a piece of paper?”
I came forward, attempting to keep my voice steady. “And you think I’m just going to let you take it? My father, my house, everything is gone! All I have left is this.”
Her mouth tightened as she gave me a sneer. I briefly feared she would slam the door in my face. Rather, her shoulders dropped slightly as she let out a quick exhale.
When I called my lawyer, he gave me his word that I was legally entitled to the house.
He said, “I’ll take care of it after the weekend.”
I gave the elderly woman another glance. “Until we find a solution, I will remain here.”
“All right. Would you like to play house? Proceed. I’m not extending a warm welcome to you, though.” She said, “By the way, my name is Deborah,” and moved slightly to let me in.
There was a subtle scent of time and wood polish in the air. It was more than a house. Deborah lived there. However, it was also mine.
We could feel the tension between us building like a building storm. Despite my uncertainty about the outcome, I was certain that neither of us intended to back down.
It felt like a war I hadn’t signed up for to live with Deborah. She took pleasure in finding ways to irritate me. At midnight, Deborah rattled pots in the kitchen as if she were getting ready for a feast, but there was none.
I was brushing my teeth in the morning when the water inexplicably stopped flowing.
“Deborah, really?” As I stared at the dry faucet, I mumbled to myself.
When I addressed her, her arrogant expression was almost hilarious.
She shrugged and remarked, “It must be those old pipes.” But she was betrayed by the glitter in her eye.
She lost my phone charger, my shoes, and my keys. They would be hidden behind the couch or in strange places like the pantry. It was petty, but it worked.
There was a glimmer of pity despite all my fury. As if this mansion were the last vestige of authority she had over her life, she appeared desolate and lonely.
I was psychologically exhausted by Monday morning, but I was resolved to stand my ground. That day, I needed everything to go well for my meeting with my lawyer. My clothes were ready and freshly ironed. That’s what I thought, anyway.
They were in a sloppy mess in the mud when I went outside to pick them up from the line where I had left them airing overnight. My well-arranged white outfit was now smeared with grass and mud.
“Are you serious?” I yelled and hurried back inside.
Deborah was enjoying a leisurely cup of tea while sitting in the kitchen. She hardly gave me a look.
“What’s wrong?”
“My clothes were thrown into the mud by you!” Anger splintered my voice.
She arched an eyebrow, adding to my annoyance with her composed manner. “I have no idea what you’re discussing.”
The wet mess was slapped upon the table by me.
“This! What’s wrong with you? You treat me like a criminal even though I haven’t done anything wrong! Why?”
She put down her teacup, which clicked against the saucer.
“You’re not welcome here,” she remarked quietly. “You do not own this house. It was never meant to belong to you.”
I went cold. “What do you mean?”
Her voice rose as she stood. “This was my house! Your dad! He took everything. He left me with nothing after taking you, our daughter!”
“What?” I hardly got the word out.
Anger and pain blazed in her eyes.
Did he not tell you that I was dead? He was unable to pardon me for my actions. However, I was your mom. Your mommy is me!
She took a little bracelet out of her pocket with a trembling hand. Her lips quivered as she held it out to me. “Take a look at this.”
I turned it over and took it, my fingers shaking. The fragile surface was inscribed with my name and birthdate. My throat tightened with each breath.
“Why?” My voice was hardly heard as I asked. “What made him do that?”
Her rage subsided and was replaced by an almost intolerable level of anguish.
Her voice cracked as she continued, “Because I left.” “I erred. I believed that living with someone else would improve my quality of life. However, that man… He also abandoned me. Your father would not pardon me when I returned. The court handed him everything, and he took you.”
I was unable to talk. The mother I never knew was the one I had been hating for days, the one who had ruined my life.
Tears filled her eyes as she went on. “This house is what he left me.” It was his method of clinging to what we had. A remembrance of our mutual love… and maybe his way of saying “thank you” for giving him you. “But he was unable to return to this place. Not after everything. Too much of our history was in this house, too much suffering for him to endure.”
All of my rage vanished, to be replaced by sorrow and bewilderment.
The days before the court date were peaceful but anxious. I walked around the house with Deborah like we were strangers on opposite sides of a battlefield. Our conversation was brief and acerbic, and we hardly spoke at all.
I thought about my father, the house, and what Deborah had told me about our common history.
My heart was heavy when the day finally came. The decision was unambiguous: Deborah was entitled to the house. She was the legitimate owner because she had lived there for years, paid the rent, and kept it up.
As I stood outside the courthouse, I could feel the weight of failure pressing down on me. My father had left me the house, but it was no longer mine.
I pulled my suitcase to the front door of the house. As I got ready to go, I sensed Deborah watching me from the kitchen.
I broke the silence by saying, “Well, I suppose this is farewell.”
“Hold on,” Deborah replied quietly.
Confused, I turned. “What is it?”
“I’ve been contemplating,” she uttered quietly. “I cannot bear for you to go. I’ve been hating and blaming myself for everything I did for years. And I let all of that out on you when you arrived. However, Emily, you are my daughter. I do not wish to lose you once more.”
I was frozen by what she said. “Are you serious?”
“I want us to give it a shot. Even if this isn’t ideal, I want us to correct it. I apologize so much.”
I gazed at her, taking in the significance of what she had said. Without giving it any thought, I moved forward and gave her a hug. Her arms encircled me tightly as she first tensed up and then relaxed.
“I apologize as well, Mom.”
We cleaned, organized old boxes, and uncovered memories throughout the course of the next weeks. The house gradually changed from a battlefield to a healing space. I discovered that forgiveness and starting over are key components of family.
