They told me they had already spoken to a lawyer.
They had a buyer.
They wanted to sell the house.
Their father’s house.
The home where I had raised them.
“Where am I supposed to go?” I asked quietly.
Mason shrugged. “You’ll figure it out. People rent apartments all the time.”
I felt something inside me crack.
“I gave up everything for you,” I whispered. “My career. My relationships. Thirteen years of my life.”
Noah looked at me without blinking.
“We never asked you to.”
The words hit harder than any slap.
They had been five years old when I took them in.
They couldn’t have asked me anything.
But somehow, after all those years, they looked at me like I was just someone standing in the way of their money.
The next morning, strangers were already walking through my home.
Real estate agents measured rooms, took photos, and talked about renovations like I was invisible.
