“I Don’t Need You Anymore.”
I stared at my reflection in the mirror, trying to find any hint of confidence in it. A wrinkled face, gray hair in a neat bun, and eyes full of doubt. At sixty‑seven, I suddenly felt like a little girl facing a difficult choice.
Except that at my age, every decision carries the weight of years, experience, and responsibility. Today, I was going to do something I had been thinking about for the last six months: sign over the house to my only daughter, Pamela. This house was more than just a structure of wood and brick.
It was a repository of memories, a witness to my life with Herbert, the place where our daughter grew up. “Are you sure, Beatatrice?” I asked myself aloud, clasping the pearl necklace my husband had given me for our twenty‑fifth anniversary. Herbert would understand me.
He always said we were working for Pamela’s future—every savings, every extra shift, every refusal to take a vacation—all so that one day our daughter would inherit the fruits of our labors. Only we both thought it would happen naturally when we were both gone. But fate had it differently.
Four years ago, a heart attack took Herbert, leaving me alone in a house that now seemed too big and empty. I sighed and picked up my purse. The papers were inside, neatly folded in a folder.
Everything was ready to go. Pamela was to meet me at the notary’s office at ten o’clock. Our house had stood on Quiet Maple Street in Salem for thirty years.
We had bought it when Pamela was twelve, giving all our savings for a down payment. Herbert winked at me then and said, “We have a real house now. A real house for a real family.” I remember him and me painting the walls, changing the floors, organizing the garden.
Every corner held the imprint of our hands, our dreams, and hopes. This is the house where Pamela got ready for graduation, where she left for college, where she brought her future husband, Winston. This is where my grandchildren, Roger and Hazel, grew up.
I told myself, as I closed the door, that I was going to give it all to them. It’s the right thing to do, I told myself again as I closed the door. The house should belong to the young.
The notary’s office was bright and spacious. Pamela was already waiting for me, elegant in her dark blue suit. Next to her sat Winston, impeccably dressed and confident as always.
“Mom, you’re late,” Pamela said instead of greeting me, glancing at her watch. “I got here five minutes before the appointed time, dear,” I replied, trying not to show that her tone had hurt me. “We’re just very excited, Beatatrice.” Winston smiled, getting up to help me with my coat.
“Such an important day for the whole family.”
The notary, Mr. Prescott, a middle‑aged man with a neat beard, came out a few minutes later. I had known him as a young intern when Herbert and I were processing the purchase of the house.
“Mrs. Woodruff, it’s good to see you again.” He shook my hand warmly. “All the documents are ready.
We just need to check the details and sign.”
The next hour passed in formalities. Mr. Prescott read out the paragraphs of the deed of gift.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
Tap READ MORE to discover the rest 🔎👇
