Silence fell over the small crowd. I watched as realization dawned on them, their faces draining of color. The house they had claimed as theirs, the home they had thrown me out of, was mine. My father had transferred ownership to me months ago. He’d done it quietly, perhaps as a final act of apology or redemption. Or maybe, deep down, he had always intended for me to have it, even if he couldn’t show it.

I remember the day Dad had come to my office, frail and haunted by the specter of his illness. Despite our past, he was still my father, and his vulnerability had moved something in me. Agreeing to buy the house from him wasn’t just a calculated decision; it was a way to bridge the chasm that had divided us for so long. I never mentioned the transaction to Mom and Emma, and Dad never breathed a word. Now, in the wake of his passing, the truth was laid bare.