The Broken Promise
My heart sank. I remembered perfectly what I had told him:
"When we finally have a house of our own, I want it to be just ours. Just the two of us."
I promised him I wouldn't let anyone interfere in our private life.
But just three days later, he broke that promise as if he'd never made it.
By evening, her family was everywhere: her mother, lounging comfortably on the couch, telling me what to cook; her sisters, strewing clothes and makeup all over the living room; and her brother, hanging his jacket on the wall, exclaiming joyfully, "How lucky! We don't have to pay rent anymore!"
I couldn't say a word.
The house I'd paid 70% for, the house I'd built with my youth and my dreams, had suddenly become my in-laws' home. Six Fingerprints
That night, while everyone was asleep, I sat silently in the living room, staring at the electronic panel on the door: six new fingerprints lit up.
Each one was like a sign that erased my place in that house.
The next morning, I left early to meet with a real estate agent.
I signed the papers to resell the house: the house of my dreams.
The officer looked surprised.
"Are you sure? She just moved."
I smiled slightly.
"I'm sorry, but I can't stay in a place where anyone can open the door whenever they want."
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