Chapter 4
"You're the one listed as the owner of this house," he told me.
I just stood there, not quite processing what he said.
"Me?" I asked, still a bit stunned.
"Yeah," he replied.
He turned the file around so I could see it.
My name was right there.
Lena Reed.
I stared at my name for a long time.
It felt almost unfamiliar, like I didn't even recognize it.
"The house was yours from the start, and it's never been changed," he said.
Suddenly, memories from way back popped into my head.
We were just married then.
Money was tight, and the house got built with the bit of cash my folks chipped in.
He said, "I'll put it in your name, so you don't have to worry."
I laughed and joked, "Doesn't matter whose name's on it."
After that, we never talked about it again.
I always thought the house and everything else stopped being mine a long time ago.
But now, it turned out it was still mine.
And my name was right there.
My hands were trembling.
"So... what does that mean for the demolition...?" I stammered.
The middle-aged woman jumped in.
"With the current policy, the payout goes to whoever's name is on the deed," she explained.
"In other words..." she paused, looking right at me.
"This house belongs to you," she said.
The room was dead silent.
All I could hear was my own heartbeat.
Each beat felt heavy, echoing in my chest.
"So... what do I need to do?" I asked.
"First, you'll need to register. After that, there'll be an assessment, signing papers, and then relocation," she explained calmly.
"There's no rush on your end right now."
I nodded, but my mind was still blank.
It felt like someone had suddenly told me I was not left with nothing. I just never realized it before.
Just then, hurried footsteps echoed outside the door.
The door was pushed open.
My daughter stood in the doorway.
She was still out of breath.
Her eyes found me instantly.
Then her eyes landed on the stack of paperwork on the desk.
"You're already here?" Her words came out fast as she stepped inside.
The middle-aged woman nodded.
"Just finished registering," she said.
My daughter turned to me.
"What did they say?" she asked.
I opened my mouth to speak.
But before I could say anything, the staffer spoke up.
"She's the owner of the house.
"The compensation will go to her."
The moment he said that, my daughter froze.
It was like she was rooted to the spot.
She stared at me.
I watched her eyes shift gradually, from worried, to shocked, and then to something complex and difficult to read.
I couldn't even tell what it was.
She fell silent for a few seconds.
Then, suddenly, she spoke, "Mom."
Her voice was much quieter than before.
"Come back home with me."
My heart clenched.
She stepped in closer and said, "You can't live here. It's such a mess.
"I'll sort all this out for you."
She said it so casually, as if nothing had happened and as if she hadn't been the one who wrecked the place yesterday.
I looked at her and didn't say a word.
She thought I was hesitating.
Her voice softened a little more.
"My place is way nicer. You'll be comfortable.
"I'll handle everything."
I looked down at my hands.
They were thin and rough.
Slowly, I raised my head and met her eyes.
This time, I didn't flinch.
I said softly, but with a quiet determination, "I'll take care of it myself."
Her face froze.
It was like for the first time, she realized she couldn't control me.
Right then, there was a knock at the door.
"Are you with the community office? I'm here for Lena Reed," the voice called out.
I recognized that voice right away.
My heart dropped.
It was him.
"Are you with the community office? I'm here for Lena Reed," he called again.
The moment I heard that voice, my heart clenched.
It was him.
I didn't turn around.
But I knew he was just outside the door.
That feeling was way too familiar.
The room went quiet for a moment.
The staffer looked up and asked, "And you are?"
The guy at the door chuckled.
"Her husband," he said, casual as ever as if nothing had ever happened.
My daughter was stunned, turning to look at him.
He walked in.
He looked clean and tidy.
His jacket was brand new, and so were his shoes.
He looked nothing like me, all dressed up in fresh clothes while I was still wearing my old jacket.
As soon as he walked in, he gave me a quick glance.
It was over in a flash, like he was making sure of something.
Then his eyes landed on the documents spread out on the desk.
He stopped for a second.
I noticed it.
In that instant, his expression shifted.
Gone was the usual impatience in his eyes.
Now there was something else in his eyes—scheming.