“Come now.”
Thirty minutes later, several police cars were parked in front of my aunt’s house.
PART 2
The presence of the police was not due to chance.
Years earlier, my grandfather had legally transferred ownership of the house to me. The deed had been signed, notarized, and officially registered. My mother had no legal right to transfer it to anyone else.
What she did constitutes misappropriation of assets.
My aunt came out in tears, claiming she didn’t know the truth, that my mother had assured her everything was “settled.” The police took statements. I remained silent. I simply listened.
My grandfather, with frightening calm, explained that he had been investigating for months. He had noticed unusual transfers, discreet sales, and so-called “family favors” concerning assets that had never belonged to them.
This house was not the only one.
My mother started begging. She said she only wanted to help her sister. She said I was “young” and could “endure some difficulties.”
My grandfather looked at her with an expression I had never seen on him before.
“To survive is not to live,” he said.
That night, for the first time in months, I slept under a roof that truly belonged to me.
I didn’t celebrate it.
I was too tired.
