“When the house is mine, I’m going to remodel the kitchen. Tear down those awful curtains. Maybe sell the vineyard and buy an apartment downtown.”
I simply nodded.
One afternoon I overheard her on a video call with Rachel again.
“I’m just waiting. I don’t think she has much time left. At her age…”
That night I didn’t cry.
That night I wrote a letter.
The day came sooner than expected.
One Thursday morning, while Sophie was taking the kids to school, the new owners arrived with a notary and a moving truck.
My suitcases were already packed.
When Sophie returned, she found boxes in the hallway and strangers measuring the walls.
“What’s going on?” she asked, pale.
The notary stepped forward.
“Miss, the property was sold three weeks ago. You have until tomorrow to vacate.”
Her eyes turned to me in disbelief.
“Mom… what does this mean?”
“It means the house is no longer mine.”
“You SOLD it? WITHOUT TELLING ME?”
“I didn’t need your permission, Sophie.”
Her face twisted with anger.
“But this is my house! It was supposed to be mine!”
There it was. No sadness. No hurt. Only fury over what she thought she had lost.
“No, daughter,” I replied softly. “It was never yours.”
She stepped closer, trembling.