At 5 a.m. sharp, Derek came into the kitchen in bare feet and entitlement. Sophia followed, still half asleep, already irritated.
He reached for the coffee first.
Then he noticed the papers.
He frowned, flipped the top page, and the smile slipped from his face.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“A courtesy,” I said, taking a seat at my own table. “Since you like mornings efficient.”
The documents were simple.
The deed—my name only.
A valuation report.
A notarized letter from my attorney stating that no power of attorney, guardianship, or transfer of ownership existed or would ever exist.
And finally, a short-term occupancy notice.
Sophia blinked. “Mom… what is this?”
“It’s the part where you stop confusing my home with a business opportunity,” I said. “And where ‘a few days’ becomes exactly seventy-two hours.”
Derek’s jaw tightened. “You’re overreacting.”
“No,” I replied calmly. “I’m correcting a misunderstanding.”
He pushed the papers away. “We’re family.”
“And this,” I said, lifting my coffee, “is my house.”
Silence filled the kitchen. The ocean hummed outside, steady and indifferent.
Sophia’s face flushed. “So you won’t even make breakfast?”
“I did,” I said gently. “Just not the kind you expected.”
They left two days later. No shouting. No apologies. Just packed bags and bruised pride.
That morning, after their car disappeared down the drive, I sat on my deck with my coffee and watched the sun climb over the water.
For the first time in a long while, my house felt like mine again.
And I slept beautifully the next morning—without setting an alarm at all.