Finally, the house where we had lived together was ready to be repossessed, and I didn’t have the strength to resist it.

I was led into the notary’s office, where an elderly gentleman indicated for me to sit.

I barely paid attention when he read the will.

Suddenly, the notary’s voice interrupted my thoughts. “A house.”

“Not your current residence, but another property your father owned.”

My hands trembled as I picked up the documents. The address was unfamiliar.

Why hasn’t he told me? Was this his attempt to make up for everything?

The next day, Friday, I determined to confront the unknown.

When I eventually arrived, the sight of the house made me tremble. It appeared ancient, but not neglected.

“This is it,” I mumbled to myself, clutching the key that the notary had given me.

The key did not function. The locks had been changed. Biting my lip, I stepped around to gaze through a window, hoping for a better view inside.

That’s when the door flew open, causing me to jump.

Standing in the doorway was a woman, possibly in her sixties, with sharp features and a look that indicated she was not pleased to see me.

“I… uh… this is my house,” I stammered, holding up 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, repaired the leaks, and fixed the roof. This isn’t your house, and I’m not leaving.”

I grip my grasp on the key. “Look, I don’t know who you are, but I have the paperwork. Legally, this house belongs to me.”

“And you think I’m just going to let you take it? I’ve lost my home, my father—everything! This is all I have left.”

I called my lawyer, who told me that I legally owned the house.

“I’ll sort it out after the weekend,” he said.

I took another glance at the old lady. “I’m staying here until we figure this out.”