As I stood there, the room felt heavy with anticipation, eyes fixed on me, expecting a dramatic reaction or perhaps another plea for understanding. Instead, I calmly took a sip of water, savoring the moment. I needed them to feel the weight of their own presumption, to understand that I wasn’t the vulnerable victim they had painted in their minds.
“My mother gifted me this house,” I began, my voice steady and unyielding. “It’s in my name—mine alone. So if anyone is leaving, it won’t be me.”
There was a moment of stunned silence. The confidence and self-righteousness that had filled the room dissipated almost instantly. My mother-in-law’s eyes widened, the color draining from her face, while Adrian’s bravado crumbled before my eyes. His sister looked as if she had been slapped, while her husband shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
