Because in that moment, I understood something important. When people rush, when they assume, when they act as if ownership and authority are interchangeable, they often miss the one thing that matters most.
The truth.
After that divorce, she moved back in with me “temporarily.”
Temporary turned into months.
Months turned into a quiet shift in behavior. She began making plans as if everything around her belonged to her by default. Furniture was rearranged. Guests were invited without asking. Conversations became statements instead of questions.
I didn’t challenge it.
At my age, you learn that not every battle needs to be fought out loud. I told myself she was going through a difficult phase. That she needed stability. That correcting her assumptions would only create unnecessary tension.
The beach house was always at the center of it.
She referred to it as hers. Told friends she’d “eventually move there.” Spoke about renovations she’d like to make. Trips she planned to take.
I never corrected her.
What Laura never seemed to remember was that the beach house wasn’t something casually acquired. It was my late husband’s final project. His pride. The last thing he poured himself into before his health declined.
He had been meticulous.
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