Three hours later, her old Honda pulled into the driveway. She stepped out different — steady, fierce. She hugged me tight, then handed me an envelope.
“Your father made arrangements,” she said. “He wanted you protected.”
“The house?” I asked.
“It’s yours,” she said. “He transferred it to you before marrying Carolina. She’s been living in your home all this time.”
I stared at the paper. “Why didn’t he tell me?”
“He was afraid she’d find out and challenge it. I’ve been the trustee. He paid the mortgage from an account she never knew existed.”Continue reading…
