Chapter 1Who Lives in My House Now?

My ex-husband cheated. He didn't just cheat; he had a child with the other woman.

So I did the only thing I could. I was living a thousand miles from my family, all for him. When I found out, I took the house in the divorce, packed a bag for myself and my daughter, and drove right back to my parents’ place without a second glance.

Ten years have passed. Now, with my daughter, Anna, accepted into Harvard, it’s time to sell that house and fund her future.

To my shock, the house that should have been gathering dust was occupied by a family of strangers—who even produced a property deed.

* * *

The apartment building stood just as I remembered it, a monument to a life I’d left behind. A wave of nausea washed over me. I had poured my heart into a love that ended in betrayal.

When Anna was eight, I discovered Kevin’s affair. The other woman was already three months pregnant. She hounded him, day and night, to divorce me. To get me to sign the papers, he offered me our only asset: the apartment, free and clear. I took the deal, the keys, and the deed, and never set foot in that city again.

Ten years. It was time to finally close that chapter.

I took a deep breath, pushing back the sour memories. My plan was simple: check on the place, then call a realtor.

But as I stood before my old front door, apartment 1901, a knot of dread tightened in my stomach. A door untouched for a decade should be coated in a thick layer of dust, the metal tarnished. This door was clean. And hanging on it was a bright, festive wreath.

My heart hammered against my ribs. Could Kevin, that piece of trash, have put it there? Unlikely. When we divorced, he couldn’t wait to be rid of me. The idea of him stopping by to hang a cheerful decoration was laughable.

Whatever. I’d figure it out once I was inside.

I pulled out my old key and slid it into the lock. It turned a fraction of an inch and then stopped, jamming tight. I jiggled it, pushed, and pulled, but the lock wouldn’t budge.

What the hell? Could a lock seize up after ten years of disuse? It seemed impossible.

After several more failed attempts, I was about to search for a local locksmith when the elevator doors hissed open. A young couple pushing a stroller emerged. I paid them no mind, assuming they were neighbors.

Then the woman’s voice, sharp and accusatory, sliced through the quiet hallway.

"Who are you? What are you doing at my door?"