I remembered the night we signed the papers for the house. I had looked at Mark and said, “When we finally have our own place, I just want it to be ours. A home for the two of us.”
He had smiled, promising me he wanted the same.
But three days later, that promise was already broken.
By evening, my kitchen was no longer mine. His mother sat comfortably on the couch, telling me how to season dinner. His sisters unpacked makeup and clothes across the living room. His brother laughed while hanging his jacket by the door.
One of them even said cheerfully, “We’re so lucky! We don’t have to pay rent anymore.”
I looked around the house — the one I had paid seventy percent for — and realized it was no longer a home. It was a boarding house.
Six Fingerprints
That night, I couldn’t sleep. I walked into the living room and stared at the glowing digital door lock. Six new fingerprints had been added — one for each of them.
Every print felt like a quiet betrayal, a reminder that I no longer had control over my own space.
The next morning, while everyone was still asleep, I left the house. I met with a real estate agent and signed the paperwork to resell it.
The agent looked at me, surprised. “Are you sure, ma’am? You’ve only just moved in.”
I smiled faintly. “I am sure. I can’t live in a house where anyone can open the door without knocking.”
The Final Conversation
