I rushed to the notary’s office with my heart pounding. My dad was gone and the home we’d shared for years was about to be taken away.
I didn’t have the strength to fight anymore.
Then the notary dropped a big surprise – my dad had left me another house. I kept wondering why he never told me about it.
Was this his way of making up for something? There was only one thing to do – I had to go see that house myself. It seemed like the only way to find out the truth.
The next day, on Friday, I decided to face this unknown. When I finally got there, just seeing the house gave me a chill. I tried the key the notary gave me, but it didn’t work. Then the door suddenly opened with a force that made me jump.
“Can I help you?” a stern voice asked. Standing in the doorway was a woman, probably around sixty. She didn’t look happy to see me.
“I… uh… this is my house,” I stammered, holding up the key. “My dad left it to me. I have the papers.”
“Papers don’t mean anything to me,” she snapped back.
I called my lawyer and he told me I had the legal right to the house. I looked at the old lady again. “I’m staying here until we figure this out.”
“Fine. You want to play house? Go ahead. I’m Deborah, by the way,” she muttered, moving aside just enough for me to enter.
Sharing the house with Deborah quickly turned into a silent battle I didn’t ask for. My things kept disappearing – my keys, my shoes, even my phone charger – and they’d show up in strange places, like in the kitchen cabinets or under the couch.
By Monday, I had an important meeting with my lawyer. I had left my clothes all neatly ironed the night before, but when I went to get them, they were outside, soaked and covered in mud. I was furious and went up to Deborah.
