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.
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.
He had known. Somehow, he knew what might happen after he passed.
He had protected me and my babies in the only way he could. From beyond the grave, my dad had handed me a sword and shield.
I laughed and cried at the same time. I hugged the papers to my chest like they were made of gold.
“Thank you, Dad,” I whispered through my tears. “Thank you for never letting go.”
