When I returned later that day, his family was gathered around the table for lunch. Laughter filled the kitchen — laughter that used to belong to me.
I placed the house sale contract and the deposit receipt in front of Mark.
“It’s the sale agreement,” I said quietly. “The house isn’t ours anymore.”
He blinked. “You did what?” His voice rose, anger mixing with disbelief. “We just moved in! Are you crazy?”
I met his gaze. “You said this was your family’s home. I simply agreed. I’m not staying in a place where I need permission to close the door.”
He slammed his hand on the table. “My name is on the deed! You can’t just sell it!”
I opened the folder and pointed to my signature beside his. “Actually, I can. And I did.”
The room went silent.
His mother’s face turned red. “A daughter-in-law selling her husband’s home? You think money gives you all the power?”
Tears pricked my eyes, but my voice didn’t waver. “No, ma’am. Money doesn’t give power. But it represents effort — the sacrifices and dreams I poured into this place. For me, this house was love. For everyone else, it’s convenience.”
