When my late father left me a house I’d never heard of, I thought it was a mistake until I found a woman living there, claiming it was hers. What she revealed shattered everything I knew.
The rain pounded relentlessly on the rooftops as I tightened my coat and quickened my pace toward the notary’s office.
My father was gone. I couldn’t shake the thought. He’d always been my rock, but in the past few years, that rock had crumbled under the weight of debts I couldn’t even comprehend.
Finally, the house we’d lived in together was about to be repossessed, and I didn’t have the strength to fight it anymore.
“What’s left?” I wondered as I reached the office door, pausing to take a deep breath.
“Probably nothing but another reminder of how much we’ve lost.”
The hallway smelled of dust and old paper, its dim light making the walls lined with faded paintings look even more lifeless. I was ushered into the notary’s office, where an older man motioned for me to sit.
“Let’s get started,” he said, flipping through a stack of documents.
As he read the will, I barely listened. My mind wandered, replaying moments with my dad, how he always told me everything, or so I thought.
Suddenly, the notary’s voice cut through my thoughts. “A house.”
“What?!” My head snapped up. “I’m sorry, did you say a house?”
“Yes,” he replied, sliding a document toward me. “Not your current residence, but another property your father owned.”
I stared at the paper, the words blurring for a moment.
“Another house? He never mentioned it. How could he hide something like this?”
My hands trembled as I picked up the documents. The address was unfamiliar.
Why didn’t he tell me? Was this his way of trying to make up for everything?
One thing was clear. I had to see this house. It felt like the only way to uncover the truth.