My mom passed so suddenly. One day she was there, full of life, the next, gone. The world felt empty. Then, less than a year later, my dad met her. Dana. She was beautiful, sharp, and from the moment we met, I could feel it: she hated me. Every look was a judgment, every word a thinly veiled jab. But my dad was happy, or so he said. And he was getting married. To her. The wedding was planned for a fancy resort, hours away. “Don’t bother with a hotel,” she chirped, saccharine sweet. “You can stay at our condo. We’ll be at the resort with everyone else, but you’ll have the place to yourself, save some money.” It sounded too good to be true, and yet, a part of me, desperate for any shred of normal, agreed. I packed a small bag, drove up, and settled into the guest room of what she proudly called “their” place. It was minimalist, modern. Not like my mom’s warm, cluttered home.
The morning of the wedding, I woke up late. Sunlight streamed through the blinds. A strange quiet. No morning bustle. I stretched, ready to get dressed, head out. I tried the bedroom door. Locked. Huh? Must be stuck. I jiggled it harder. Still locked. Okay, weird. I tried the main door, the one to the hallway. It wouldn’t budge. I rattled the handle, then threw my weight against it. Nothing. A cold dread seeped into my stomach. I checked the sliding glass door to the small balcony. Locked from the outside.
My heart started to pound. This wasn’t an accident. I tried my phone. NO SIGNAL. I banged on the windows, yelling. No one. The condo was on a high floor. I was trapped. She did this. I KNEW IT. She wanted me to miss the wedding. To humiliate me. To make sure I wasn’t there to witness my dad’s happiness, her happiness.
Panic set in. I tore through the condo, frantic. I needed a key. A spare. ANYTHING. I started pulling drawers open, tossing cushions. I went into the small utility closet, hoping for a toolbox, a window crank. Empty. Then I noticed it. A loose floorboard, barely visible beneath a stack of old magazines she must have forgotten to throw out. My hands trembled as I pried it up.
Inside wasn’t a key. It was a stack of papers. Old, official-looking documents. I pulled them out, my breath catching in my throat. The top one was a deed. My eyes scanned the bold lettering, the legal jargon. It wasn’t in my dad’s name. It wasn’t in Dana’s name. It was in my mother’s name. THIS WAS HER CONDO. This condo, the one Dana called “theirs,” the one my dad had been living in, was my mom’s private property, owned solely by her.
Then I found it. Another document, nestled beneath the deed. A will. My mother’s will, dated just months before she died. My hands shook so violently I almost dropped it. It was brief, precise. It left this condo, this entire property, to me. Her only child. Her legacy.
Dana didn’t just lock me in so I’d miss her wedding. She locked me into a place that was rightfully mine, a place she and my father had stolen. The tiny detail she forgot? This condo was not just a place to keep me prisoner; it was my mother’s final gift, my inheritance, and the very key to unlocking their shocking betrayal. I wasn’t just locked out of a wedding; I was locked into a truth that shattered everything I thought I knew about my father, about our family, and about the woman he married. And there was no escaping that feeling.
