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The afternoon should have been one of relief. After years of saving, planning, and careful decision-making, I was finally standing in front of the house I had purchased on my own. It wasn’t extravagant, but it was solid, welcoming, and mine. I remember holding my keys, feeling proud in a quiet, grown-up way that comes from building something step by step.
That feeling vanished the moment I noticed the lock.
It wasn’t the one I’d installed.
Before I could make sense of it, the front door opened. My mother stood there, arms crossed, her expression distant and firm. Without hesitation, she said, “You need to go. This is your sister’s house now.”
At first, I honestly believed I had misheard her. The words didn’t fit reality. Mothers don’t do that. Families don’t work that way. Surely this was a misunderstanding that would clear up in seconds.
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