I thought about the emptied account, the forged signature, the changed locks, and the year he spent telling our families I was unstable for asking questions.
“I wanted what was mine to stop being treated like yours.”
Closing took place thirty-four days later.
Cameron delayed until the final afternoon.
He disputed the inventory, claimed a light fixture belonged to him, and left three broken chairs in the garage.
But at 4:17 p.m., the final documents were recorded.
The house became mine.
My parents were not there.
Neither had contacted me after sending the messages to Marisol.
My mother eventually mailed a birthday card with a two-page letter inside.
Most of it explained how charming Cameron had been and how she had believed the joke would “break the tension.”
Near the end, she wrote, “We never imagined it would affect his house.”
I underlined his.
Then I put the letter in the same folder as the settlement.
Weeks later, she called again and asked when we could return to normal.
“We can’t,” I said.
“We’re your parents.”
“Yes.”
“That has to mean something.”
“It means you knew exactly where to hurt me.”
She whispered that they had made a mistake.
I told her a mistake was forgetting the cake candles.
Opening a door and inviting my ex through it was a choice.
We did not stop speaking forever, but access to my life was no longer automatic.
I met my mother for coffee in public.
I spoke to my father by phone.
Neither received a key to the house.
The first night after closing, I stood alone in the entryway while late sunlight stretched across the floor.
The rooms looked smaller than I remembered.
Cameron had painted the kitchen gray and installed a mirrored bar where my reading chair used to be.
The hallway wall still carried the dent from the suitcase.
I placed my palm over it.
For months, I had imagined repairing that mark immediately.
Instead, I left it for a while.
Not as a shrine to what happened, but as proof that damage could remain visible without controlling the whole room.
Lauren helped me repaint the kitchen.
Nina brought the raccoon card from my birthday and taped it inside a cabinet.
Paul replaced the lock on the side door and refused payment unless I promised never to ask him about the possum incident again.
I sold Cameron’s mirrored bar and bought a deep green reading chair.
The following year, I celebrated my birthday at the house.
Six people came.
No microphone.
No speeches.
No surprises.
Lauren brought a lemon cake because chocolate raspberry had not been my favorite in years.
We ate outside beneath a single strand of patio lights I had hung myself.
Before I blew out the candles, I looked through the open door at the rooms behind me.
The house no longer felt like a prize I had won from Cameron.
It felt like a place where nobody could use my pain as entertainment and still expect a seat at my table.
I made one wish.
Then I blew out the candles without bracing for the door to open.
