A few more days passed. Still at that motel on the edge of town, counting every cent and trying to figure out what to do. I had nowhere to go. No one to ask.

So I went through some old documents. Maybe something could help me survive.

In one folder, I found paperwork I hadn’t seen in over ten years — property documents, still under my name and my late husband’s.

We had planned to transfer the house to our daughter but never finalized it. Legally… I was still the owner. I just never filed the transfer.

At first, I hesitated. For a week. Should I forgive? Forget?

But then I remembered that voice. That look. That coldness.

I gathered the documents, hired a lawyer, and calmly sent a formal notice. They had 30 days to move out. They tried to talk. My daughter cried. Begged. Explained. But it was too late. Not out of revenge. But because I was tired of being nothing.

A month later, I moved back in. To the same house. I cleaned. Boiled water. Sat by the window.

And I didn’t feel joy. Only emptiness.

Yes, I came back. But what I lost along the way… will it ever return?

And you — do you think I did the right thing? Or should I have just walked away and never looked back?..