I worked nonstop to buy our dream home

‘Like hell we are!’

‘You don’t get a say,’ I reply sweetly. ‘Neither does Jack. It’s my house. I bought it. I worked for it. I earned it. You don’t get to squat here because of some made-up “tradition.”’

Jack’s voice thunders from the stairs. ‘You can’t just sell the house!’

‘Sure I can. I spoke to a lawyer. Turns out, the person who actually owns the home can do that.’

Jack blinks. His mom gapes. His dad’s face turns red.

But I don’t stop.

The listing goes up. I host an open house. I smile, bake cookies, and play soft jazz while potential buyers wander through what was our dream home. The home I made a reality.

Jack’s parents try to sabotage it — they make a scene during a tour, yelling about “family” and “betrayal” and how their poor son is being wronged. But I just hand out flyers and keep smiling.

A week later, I get a full-price offer.

I accept.

I don’t tell Jack until the movers arrive.

He walks in from the garage and finds strangers packing the kitchenware and rolling up the rug his mother claimed as “hers.”

‘What the hell is happening?’

‘We’re moving,’ I say brightly, handing a box to the movers. ‘Well, I am.’

‘You’re leaving me?’

Continue reading…