ADVERTISEMENT
I recently transferred my house to my 18-year-old granddaughter, Maya. It was a modest but solid home in Seattle, the only real asset I owned, and I wanted her future secured before my health declined further. Maya had been under my care since she was five, ever since my son, Thomas, and his wife left her with me for what they claimed was a temporary job opportunity abroad. That “temporary” move stretched into more than a decade. I raised her, guided her through school, and watched her become a thoughtful, capable young woman. She was my family, and the house was meant to be her anchor.
Out of nowhere, Thomas and his wife returned to Seattle, suitcases in hand, acting as if no time had passed. Their politeness faded the moment they learned the house was no longer in my name. They demanded it outright, insisting Maya was “too young” and that the property belonged to them. I reminded Thomas that he had walked away from his daughter years ago and had no claim—legal or moral. I offered them a short stay as guests, but the deed would not be reversed. The house was Maya’s.
ADVERTISEMENT
