My childhood apartment always smelled like cinnamon and old books, a scent my dad called the magic of brick walls—they absorbed life and gave it back when you needed it. After his funeral, standing in that sunlit living room, I could almost hear his laughter echoing off the worn hardwood floors.
Before he passed, Dad told me, “This place is yours. It’s my legacy to you.” Three years later, I sat across from my husband, Conrad, who was shaking, telling me we had lost everything—our clients, our business. And it was all Marcus’s fault. “We could lose the house, Nance,” he said. He begged me to sell my father’s apartment to save us.
With tears in my eyes, I agreed, even though it felt like losing the last piece of Dad. We sold it for $310,000. Conrad promised he’d make things right. But I soon found out he’d lied—about the debts, the business, and about everything. He’d forged my signature, sold our agency for $600,000, and was secretly seeing Lydia, his college girlfriend.
After discovering the truth, I planned my revenge. I confronted Marcus, got the evidence, and hired a lawyer. Then I set a trap for Conrad. On our anniversary, I revealed everything—the lies, the betrayal, and the money he’d stolen. I gave him 72 hours to return it or face court.
In the end, Conrad surrendered, and Lydia disappeared. But then, a surprise call came: the buyer of my father’s apartment backed out. The apartment was mine again.
Standing in that familiar doorway, I whispered, “I got it back, Dad. I got it back.” I realized that the apartment was never just bricks and mortar. It was love, a legacy that couldn’t be bought or sold. Some might call it karma. I call it coming home.
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