“You don’t belong here,” she said one morning. “This house wasn’t supposed to be yours.”
Then she told me: she was my mother. My father had taken me after she left him, and she’d spent years trying to move on. The bracelet she showed me—engraved with my name and birthdate—made it undeniable.
Court ruled in her favor. The house was legally hers. I packed to leave, ready to say goodbye.
But she stopped me.
“I’ve already lost you once,” she said. “Let’s not do it again.”
We hugged—awkwardly, tearfully. From that day on, we started to rebuild what we’d lost. The house that divided us became a place where we slowly learned to forgive, and to love.
