The days leading up to the court hearing passed in uneasy silence.
We moved around each other like ghosts, sharing a fragile space.
I spent my hours trying to piece together the truth—about the house, about my father, and about the woman who claimed to be my mother.
When the verdict came, it was quick: Deborah would keep the house. Her two decades of residence, repairs, and payments made her the rightful owner.
Standing outside the courthouse, holding the papers, I felt something inside me break.
Back at the house, I packed quietly, dragging my suitcase toward the front door.
Deborah stood in the kitchen, watching.
“Well,” I said, forcing steadiness into my voice, “guess that’s it.”
Her voice softened. “Wait.”
I turned. “What?”
She stepped toward me.
“I don’t want you to go,” she said. “I’ve hated myself for so long. When you showed up, I didn’t know how to be anything except bitter. But you’re my daughter. I don’t want to lose you again.”
I stared at her.
“Are you serious?”
She nodded.
“I want to fix this. If you’ll let me. I’m sorry.”
I didn’t answer with words.
I hugged her.
