The rain pounded on the rooftops as I tugged my coat tighter and hurried to the notary’s office. My father was gone—my steady rock had collapsed under a mountain of debt. The house we shared was about to be repossessed, and I was too exhausted to fight any longer.
Inside the dusty, dim hallway, I was ushered into the notary’s office. He opened the will, and before I could process, he spoke: “A house.” Not this one, another property I’d never heard of. Shocked, I realized my father had hidden this from me. I had to see it.
The next day, I drove down a winding, golden-lit road to find a quaint, well-kept home with a mossy roof—younger than it seemed. The key didn’t work, though. As I peeked in, a door slammed open. A stern older woman confronted me. I showed her the papers. She claimed she’d lived there twenty years, paid all the bills, and refused to leave. I stood my ground: this was legally my inheritance. She introduced herself as Deborah and reluctantly let me in.
Living under the same roof quickly turned into silent warfare—clanking pots at midnight, water cut-offs, missing keys, soaked clothes in the mud. Yet beneath the tension, I sensed her fear and loneliness. On Monday morning, ready for a lawyer meeting, I discovered my clothes were ruined. Confronting Deborah, she exploded: this was her home. She accused my father of taking everything—her, our daughter—leaving her behind.
She pulled out a bracelet engraved with my name and birth date: proof she was my mother. He left her behind for another life, and the courts gave him custody of me. Suddenly, the woman I loathed was the mother I never knew.