When I was expecting twins, my stepmother attempted to throw me out, but my dad’s last surprise made all the difference. My name is Emily. At the age of 24, I feel as though life has hit me like a baseball bat and is still going strong. It’s not as though everything was flawless all the time. Although I never had a storybook existence, I managed to make ends meet.
I was living in a small apartment with Ethan, working part-time at a neighborhood bookshop, and attempting to complete my college degree. In addition to being my lover, he was also my best friend; he was the type of person who made me laugh like sunshine on rainy days and held my hand when I was afraid. With the softest heart and oil-stained fingertips, he was a mechanic.
Then one evening he just failed to return home. Everything changed when someone knocked on the door. All the officer had to say was “car crash” and “instant,” and my entire world fell apart. I was reminded of him in every section of our apartment, and the silence was much more oppressive than the pain. I was unable to eat or breathe for some time.
Trying to relearn how to live, I just cuddled up on our bed wearing one of his old hoodies. Then came the nausea, unrelenting and unstoppable. Before the doctor informed me that I was expecting twins, I believed that my illness was caused by grief. Twins. Ethan would have shed tears of joy. Me? I was afraid.
I was hardly able to function, and now I was harboring two lives. I had a high-risk pregnancy, according to the doctor. I had to be closely watched and placed on tight bed rest. I was no longer able to live alone. I had very few choices. Ethan’s parents had retired and relocated to Arizona, and my mother had died when I was a teenager. So I gave my dad a call.
Since he remarried Veronica, Dad’s house wasn’t truly his anymore. She had flawless nails that never looked like they had been painted, shining blonde hair, and a sharp-edged, magazine-cover-worthy glamour that belied her considerable youth. I hoped we could work things out, though. He was all I had, and I needed help.
Dad embraced me without reluctance. When I got there, his gray eyes were tired and loving, and he gave me a firm hug. The man held my face as if I were ten years old and murmured, “This is your home, sweetheart,” Just then, I was able to breathe again because the weight on my chest had slightly decreased.
Veronica was not really excited. The smile she gave was the strained, thin-lipped kind you get when someone walks on your new rug. Initially, she merely gave me a brief assessment and murmured something about “timing.” I made every effort to keep out of her way. I remained silent, cleaned up after myself, thanked her for each meal, and stayed in the guest room.
Although she never spoke loudly, she kept a close eye on me. I could feel her eyes on me whenever I walked down the hall or asked Dad for assistance getting into the bathtub. I persuaded myself that was okay, though. Short-term.
Dad really enjoyed having me there. He would sit next to my bed and rub my feet or recite old tales from my early years. He even brought me small items, like a plush animal for the twins, herbal tea, and a new pillow.
Then he became ill. He vanished after only a few days of exhaustion. It happened so abruptly. It was unbelievable to me. I was unable to properly say farewell. He was reading a book next to me one minute, and then I was looking at his empty chair. At that point, everything fell apart.
Veronica didn’t reveal who she really was until two days after the burial. She entered the kitchen wearing crimson lipstick and silk heels as if she were going to a banquet, while I was still in my jammies, attempting to eat toast through tears. She didn’t sit down or inquire about my well-being. She advised, instead, that “you need to start packing.”
Her icy, piercing voice ripped through my anguish as if it were nonexistent. Bewildered, I blinked. “What?”
“You have 36 hours,” she added as she poured a glass of wine for herself. “I now own this house. You and your… bastards are not welcome here.”
It was as though the room’s air had been drawn out. “Veronica,” I muttered, “I have two weeks until my due date. What am I meant to do?”
Without even glancing at me, she shrugged. “Motel? A place to stay? It’s not my issue. You aren’t squatting in my house, though. There is too much space here for your drama. Additionally, I will not be housing someone else’s children.”
Grasping the counter for support, I got to my feet. “Dad would never have allowed this.” The glass of water on the counter next to me rattled because my hands were shaking so much.
Perfectly frigid, she turned and grinned. Flatly, “Dad’s not here,” she stated. “I am.”
She took out her phone and dialed before I could say anything more. “Mike? Yes. Come on over. We have an issue.”
I had never heard of her boyfriend, Mike, until then. She had apparently been visiting him during Dad’s hospital stays. He arrived in less than an hour. He was a large, smug, and excessively tanned man who seemed to already control the place.
Veronica wasted no time. Calmly, “Break the door,” she instructed him. “She doesn’t belong here.”
I made a police call. Despite my trembling voice, I managed to say what I wanted to. “My stepmother is attempting to evict me. My pregnancy is 38 weeks along. Send someone, please.”
Fortunately, they arrived, and Mike was stopped. I knew I couldn’t remain, though. I had nowhere else to go, no money, and no employment.
I packed what I could. I lost half my garments because my hands were shaking so much. It appeared as though a storm had swept through the guest room.
I barely made it to the shelter for women. I was swollen, tired, and trying not to cry in front of the employees. One of my suitcases tore open as I hauled it inside the room they provided. Clothes and a manila envelope spilled out.
I went cold. Dad had given me the envelope, and for some reason, I had completely forgotten about it. I snatched it up, my fingers shaking, my heart pounding. That it would change everything was unknown to me at the time.
I have a clear memory of it. A month or so before Dad’s death. We were drinking tea together on the porch. The sky was painted a gentle gold by the low light. He appeared calm despite his weariness, as if he understood something I didn’t.
Suddenly he reached beneath his coat and produced a big manila envelope. He gave it to me with both hands and said, “Em, don’t open this until I’m gone.”
I gazed at it, perplexed. “What is it?”
As he said, “You’ll know when the time comes,” his eyes crinkled with that recognizable sparkle. “Just trust me.”
I refrained from arguing. I nodded, put it in my luggage, and forgot about it until a few weeks later, when I was crouched down on a shelter floor, feeling like I was going to pass out from heartbreak.
The cosmos seemed to pause when the envelope slipped out. I opened it with shaking fingers. My name was written in Dad’s immaculate handwriting at the top of a stack of paperwork that had been meticulously clipped together.
I was completely stunned by the first page. It was the deed. I was the legal owner of the house. After being notarized and signed, the paper was formally filed. I had been transferred ownership. It was entirely lawful and irrevocable.
I covered my mouth in a gulp. My vision became hazy. Everything was there: attested, dated, and lovingly sealed. He was aware. He somehow knew what may occur after his death.
He had done what he could to keep me and my babies safe. My father had given me a sword and shield from the hereafter.
I simultaneously sobbed and laughed. As if they were made of gold, I held the papers close to my chest. “Thank you, Dad,” I said in a tearful murmur. “Thank you for never letting go.”
I wasted no time. I went straight to the house the following morning. Veronica, wearing silk pajamas as if she lived in a five-star resort, was in the kitchen, sipping her expensive imported coffee. She raised her head, perplexed.
At first, I remained silent. Calm and steady, I entered and placed the deed on the table before her. She raised her eyebrows. “What’s this?”
“Actually, it’s mine,” I answered, meeting her eyes. “Dad left it to me. You are not allowed to touch it legally. That won’t change no matter what you do.”
She gazed at the page as though it had offended her directly. “T-This isn’t… You are unable to… That is unfair.”
“Oh, it’s completely fair,” I corrected myself, maintaining a steady tone. “While I was ready to give birth, you attempted to toss your husband’s grandkids and me out on the street. You burned the entire field instead of just crossing a line.”
Eyes wide, she got to her feet. “You think this little piece of paper gives you the right to—”
“To stay in my home?” I said. “Yes. The officers outside concur as well.”
She stopped. “What?”
Two policemen entered from the corridor. Fortunately, I had the foresight to alert the authorities before confronting her, and one of the shelter volunteers had accompanied me in case things became unpleasant.
The police patiently went over everything. The house was not legally hers. The documents were legitimate and unambiguous. She was forced to leave because I was the legitimate owner.
Hissing, “I’m not going anywhere,”
“You are,” one of the policemen responded. “You have twenty-four hours to gather your belongings and leave the area. Interfering in any way will be regarded as criminal trespass.”
Mike barged in before she could argue, but she opened her mouth. “What’s going on?”
Veronica looked at him, almost trembling. “They claim that I don’t own the residence. She’s lying, that chick. I was promised this by her father.”
Mike picked up the deed and looked at it, turning the pages. His expression dropped. “Looks real to me,” he said in a whisper.
Veronica gave him a fierce look. “Are you serious? Are you siding with her?”
He gave a shrug. “I’m not going to jail for your tantrum.”
They eventually departed. She banged the door till the frame trembled. I remained for a while in the corridor, simply taking in the quiet.
Not because I put in more effort, but because someone loved me enough to get ready for the fight I never anticipated, the house was finally mine.
It wasn’t quite over, though. I was back in the house two weeks later. With two cots, some gentle pastel wallpaper, and small stuffed animals on the windowsill, the nursery was gradually coming together.
I heard it while folding baby blankets. Screaming and beating were heard. I hurried to the entrance. Outside, Mike and Veronica were enraged and hammering like madmen on the wood.
When their words reverberated through the door, each syllable tinged with poison, I remained motionless in the hallway, holding my phone to my chest.
“You don’t deserve this house!” Veronica let out a cry. “I own it! He cherished me.”
Not even the door was opened by me. I immediately dialed the cops. Within minutes, they were there. Mike and Veronica were immediately taken into custody for harassment, intimidation, and trespassing.
She continued to yell about what she was due and fought the entire time. However, she owed nothing.
I sat in the living room that evening with the deed in my lap, barefoot, and wrapped in a warm blanket. I kept stroking the page as if it were evidence that I wasn’t dreaming.
It was my house, safe and quiet. I said, “You really thought of everything, didn’t you?” as I glanced up at the ceiling. He had. My dad had a plan, even when I doubted it and gave up.
A superb plan, calm and steady, to shield me and his grandchildren from a mother who never viewed us as anything more than impediments.
A week later, the twins were born, two healthy girls with my nose and Ethan’s emerald eyes. I gave them the names Grace and Lily.
On other nights, I reflect on everything that has transpired while they sleep on each side of me. The guy who defended me to the end of his life, the home I battled for, and the love I lost.
Veronica never returned. She and Mike were involved in a fraud investigation in another state when I last heard from them. She is no longer a part of my story, thus I don’t care anymore.
However, my father is. Ethan is. My girls are, too.
If I’ve learnt anything, it’s to stand your ground when people attack you with cruelty and greed. Love can sometimes provide protection in addition to healing. And occasionally, the people we love leave behind shields we were unaware we had, long after they are gone.
I have enough figured out, but not all of it. I own a house. I am at peace. Additionally, I am strong enough to fulfill my duty to Ethan as a mother.
The woman who attempted to ruin me? She is merely a resentful recollection.
I got more than just a house from my parents. He gave me confidence, hope, and the strength to stand up for myself.
Now, I know he’s still here—in the warmth that permeates this room, in the breeze outside the window, and in the walls of this house—every time I feel Lily or Grace kick, laugh, or cry.
He left me more than just a deed. He left me with the conclusion of one tale and the start of another.
