When my late father left me a house I had never heard of, I thought it had to be some sort of mistake—until I found a woman living there, claiming it was hers. What she revealed would shatter everything I thought I knew about my family.
The rain fell in relentless sheets as I hurried toward the notary’s office, my coat pulled tight against the chill. My father was gone. The man who had been my rock for as long as I could remember had crumbled under the weight of debts and secrets I never fully understood. Now, the house we’d shared was being repossessed, and I had resigned myself to the idea that nothing was left.
The notary’s office smelled of dust and old paper. I was ushered into a room where an older man sat behind a desk, flipping through a stack of documents. As he began reading the will, my thoughts drifted to the moments I’d spent with my dad—the way he always seemed to have all the answers, the way he had protected me from the worst of life’s storms. Or so I thought.
He slid a document across the desk. “Your father owned a second house. It’s now yours.”
The words blurred as I stared at the paper. My father had never mentioned another house. Why would he keep something like that from me? My hands trembled as I took the address. One thing was clear—I had to see it for myself.