She tilted her head, smirking. “You’re Linda’s son. I was the one here. You barely showed up.”
I couldn’t speak. She shut the door, leaving me on the porch with my life boxed and abandoned. No car. No plan. Just shame.
My mother picked up on the second ring. “James? What’s wrong?”
“She threw me out,” I said, voice cracking.
Her tone sharpened. “Don’t touch anything. I’m coming. There’s something your father asked me to keep quiet — something you need to see.”
Three hours later, her old Honda pulled into the driveway. She stepped out different — steady, fierce. She hugged me tight, then handed me an envelope.
“Your father made arrangements,” she said. “He wanted you protected.”
Inside was a deed. My name. Dated three years ago.
“The house?” I asked.
“It’s yours,” she said. “He transferred it to you before marrying Carolina. She’s been living in your home all this time.”
“He was afraid she’d find out and challenge it. I’ve been the trustee. He paid the mortgage from an account she never knew existed.”
My mother’s smile was cool, resolute. “Let’s go let her know she’s trespassing.”
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