I parked under the old oak with a jar of warm blackberry jam, planning a quiet visit to my daughter Ivy. But the farmhouse felt wrong the moment I stepped inside—stale air, cluttered chairs, a screaming toddler. Rosalind, my son-in-law’s mother, was at the stove, commanding the space. Ivy looked exhausted and small.
Photos had been replaced. The master bedroom was taken. The shed, once Ivy’s refuge, buried under someone else’s belongings. What had started as a gift—a farm and a home in her name—had become a cage because she hadn’t enforced her boundaries.
That night, I went to the county office. The deed confirmed it: Ivy alone owned the property. The next morning, I placed it on the kitchen table.
“This house is yours,” I told her.
Rosalind protested. Robert tried to intervene. But the paper spoke louder than words. Slowly, Ivy straightened, her voice firm for the first time in months: “It’s time for everyone to pack.”
Suitcases rolled, doors slammed, the house emptied. I handed Ivy her old, cracked blue mug—the one she loved—and finally, the farmhouse breathed again. This time, it was truly hers.