As the months passed, I kept my ownership of the house a secret. Life continued, and Dad’s health declined rapidly. I visited him in the hospital whenever I could, offering support and companionship in his remaining days. Despite our strained past, I cherished those moments, finding peace in the quiet understanding that we had forgiven each other.
When the call came that Dad had passed, I was prepared, yet a wave of emotions swept over me. The funeral was a simple affair, attended by family and a few close friends. As we gathered at the house afterward, the air was heavy with unsaid words and unshared grief.
My mother and Emma were cold, distant. I expected nothing less; our relationship had always been complicated. After everyone left, they turned to me with expressions of disdain. “We need to talk about the future,” Mom said curtly, her eyes narrowing.
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