“She hasn’t even visited in three years.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Then what is?”
My mother stood and carried her plate to the sink.
“The point is that this is her house now.”
Forty-eight hours.
Five years of sacrifice reduced to two days.
I waited for my father to speak.
Anything.
But he never looked up.
So I didn’t plead.
I didn’t yell.
I simply walked to my room.
Inside, I locked the door and sat on the edge of the bed. My hands were trembling—not from anger, but from disbelief.
Then I picked up my phone and called Caroline.
My best friend.
And a real estate lawyer.
She answered right away.
“What happened?”
I told her everything—the dinner, the ultimatum, the house, and my grandfather.
There was a long pause.
“I need to check something,” she said. “Give me an hour.”
Fifty-eight minutes later, my phone rang again.
Her voice sounded completely different.
Sharp. Focused.
“You need to listen carefully,” she said.
“What?”
“Oh my God…”
“The will your parents claimed was missing?”
My stomach tightened.
“It’s not missing.”
“It’s signed, notarized, and filed with the county.”
I stopped breathing.
“And it names you,” she said quietly,
“as the only heir to that house.”
