People stumbled out, some coughing, some laughing. Glass shattered somewhere. Someone cried. Then Tara burst out the front door, barefoot, holding a half-empty bottle of vodka like it was something sacred.
“My house!” she shrieked, mascara running down her face. “My house is gone!”
The firefighters came fast, but it didn’t matter. The flames had already taken over. The roof caved in like a sandcastle in the tide.
I stood there, barefoot in the yard, watching everything George and I had built turn to black ash.
When the fire chief asked who owned the property, Tara stepped forward.
“I do,” she said quickly. “She’s just a guest.”
But her lie didn’t hold.
The fire report listed me as the legal owner. Because, despite everything, George and I had never removed our names from the deed. Tara had forged mail, yes, but she had never changed the actual title. That required more than forms and fake smiles.
Then came the final blow.
Tara tried to file an insurance claim, but they denied it. They cited negligence and illegal occupancy. She wasn’t listed on the policy. I was.
I got a call the following week.
“Mrs. Hayworth,” the adjuster said. “You’re entitled to full coverage for the fire damage. The property is in your name. We’ll begin restoration immediately.”
I didn’t cry. Not then. I just stared out at the barn and felt something lift from my chest.
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