Standing in the doorway was a woman, probably in her sixties, with sharp features and an expression that made it clear she wasn’t happy to see me. Her eyes, though tired, held a defiant spark.
“I… uh… this is my house,” I stammered, holding up the key. “It was left to me by my late father.”
“Your house? I’ve been living here for twenty years. I’ve paid the bills, repaired the leaks, and fixed the roof. This isn’t your house, and I’m not leaving.”
My grip tightened on the key. “Look, I don’t know who you are, but I have the paperwork. Legally, this house belongs to me.”
“Paperwork means nothing to me,” she shot back. “I’ve put my blood, sweat, and tears into this place. You think I’ll walk away just because you have a piece of paper?”
“And you think I’m just going to let you take it? I’ve lost my home, my father—everything! This is all I have left.”
She glared at me, her mouth tightening. For a moment, I thought she might shut the door in my face. Instead, she exhaled sharply.
I called my lawyer.
“You hold the deed,” he said. “You’re within your rights. We’ll file on Monday.”
When I hung up, the woman was still in the doorway, unmoving.
