…laughter. No child’s crying, no hurried footsteps, just laughter. Cheerful, relaxed laughter that tells you everything is perfect.
The door opened, and I came face to face with Rebeca. She was elegantly dressed, styled, and made up. She hesitated for a moment when she saw me.
— Mom… What a surprise, she said with a fake smile. Rareș… your mother is here.
From behind her, Rareș appeared, visibly awkward. He didn’t seem happy to see me.
— What are you doing here? he said through clenched teeth, trying to keep his tone low.
— To see if you are okay. Or rather, to see what you have spent my money on.
The atmosphere changed abruptly. The children appeared behind them, happy to see me, but Rebeca sent them to their rooms.
I entered without waiting for an invitation. I saw new paintings on the walls, a huge television, designer furniture.
— The hypothesis that you were going to lose the house was a lie, wasn’t it? I asked coldly.
Rareș tried to justify himself:
— Mom, we had good intentions. We were desperate. But then… Rebeca inherited from an aunt, things changed.
— And you forgot about me, the contract, everything. You even told the kids that I was too busy for them.
He didn’t respond. I left without adding anything.
On Monday morning, I called my lawyer. I gave the green light. In a few weeks, all the procedures were completed. The contract had been signed, I had a lien on the house, and they hadn’t returned a cent. I sold the house. With all the paperwork in order.
When they received the eviction notice, Rareș called me in a panic.
— Mom, you can’t do this! The kids…
— Your children have been lied to. They have been kept away from their grandmother. You had a chance and chose to shut the door in my face. Now it’s my turn.
They didn’t speak to me for a while. But last week, I received a letter from Emma. Handwritten.
“Grandma, please don’t be mad at me. I know you did everything you could. Thank you for wanting to help us. I miss you. My room is no longer purple. But when I have my own house, I will make it purple again.”
I cried. Not for what I had lost. But because, despite all the lies, a 12-year-old girl still knew what true love meant.
And that cannot be sold.
This work is inspired by real events and people, but has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
The author and publisher do not assume responsibility for the accuracy of events or for how characters are portrayed and are not liable for any misinterpretations. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed belong to the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.
