The next day, I began to put my plan into action. It wasn’t brutal or malicious; it was based on reality and consequences. I called my lawyer and discussed the idea of transferring the apartment to my name, and mine alone, with a non-dispute clause. Then I found a real estate agency and asked for a valuation—not because I wanted to sell, but to have official proof of value in case my parents had any other ideas. The apartment was worth over 600,000 lei.
It all hurt, but the pain was the perfect fuel.
A few days later, my mother called me as if nothing had happened. Her tone was the same: authoritarian, cold, commanding.
“Have you made your decision yet? Clara can’t live off the rent like a pauper, making fools of us.”
This “making us look like idiots” was the last straw.
“Mom, I’ve made my decision. The apartment is mine only legally, notarized, beyond dispute. I won’t give it to anyone. And so you understand how much you’ve hurt me with what you’ve done, I want you to know that from now on, you won’t be allowed in my house, not even for coffee. You’ve crossed a line.”
There was a heavy silence on the line. Dad picked up the phone and simply said:
