“I bought my first apartment after five years of saving, but at dinner my father shouted at me, ‘You’re selling it tomorrow to pay for your sister’s master’s degree,’ slapped me in front of everyone, and four days later the bank called me…”
“You’re selling that apartment tomorrow, or you can forget you have a father.”
That’s how my dad said it, sitting at the head of the table, looking at me like my life was something he owned. He didn’t even give me the chance to finish smiling.
My name is Sophia Bennett. I’m twenty-eight years old, and for five years I lived with one quiet, stubborn dream: to own something that belonged only to me. Not rented, not shared, not dependent on anyone else’s approval. Mine.
I worked as a physical therapist in a private clinic in Los Angeles. I took double shifts whenever I could, accepted extra patients on weekends, packed my meals so I wouldn’t spend money outside, and kept driving an old Toyota that rattled every time I turned the key. While my friends traveled or upgraded their lives, I saved every dollar. Some days the exhaustion felt unbearable, but I held onto one image: keys in my hand, a door that was mine to open.