“You’ll know when the time comes,” he said, eyes crinkling with that familiar twinkle.
“Just trust me.”
I didn’t argue. I nodded, tucked it into my suitcase, and forgot about it — until that moment weeks later, when I was hunched on the floor of a shelter, heartbroken and on the verge of collapse. When the envelope slipped out, it felt like the universe pressed pause.
My fingers were trembling as I opened it. Inside was a stack of documents, carefully clipped together, with my name written at the top in Dad’s neat handwriting. The first page stopped me cold.
It was the deed. The house was legally mine. The document was signed, notarized, and officially filed.
The ownership had been transferred to me. It was irrevocable and completely legal. I gasped and covered my mouth.
My vision blurred. It was all there — dated, witnessed, and sealed with love. He had known.
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