A wave of pure rage washed over me. That small place had only one bedroom, ancient plumbing, and there was barely enough room for two people, let alone three.
“Who the hell are you?” I demanded, my voice trembling.
“First, we go cancel that power of attorney,” she replied firmly.
We walked straight to a notary public office three blocks away. The legal clerk confirmed my worst fears after checking the system.
“The power of attorney is fully valid and grants broad authority to represent your property,” the notary told me.
I signed the revocation paperwork immediately to void his rights.
Then we called the real estate agency listed on the property ad from a burn phone.
“The apartment has already been reserved with a deposit,” the agent answered over the speakerphone. “The official signing is scheduled for tomorrow at nine in the morning.”
I had to sit down on the nearest chair because my knees gave out. This was not just a silly suspicion, and Courtney was not a fictional lover created by a crazy stranger. My own husband had been meticulously planning this betraying operation for weeks.
When we stepped outside the notary office, I confronted the mystery woman again.
“Now tell me who you are,” I said, blocking her path.
She led me into a quiet corner coffee shop, opened her handbag, and placed an old faded photograph on the table. It showed a teenage girl holding a tiny newborn baby wrapped in a yellow blanket. Then she placed a worn, yellowed document right beside it.
I leaned closer and read my own date of birth, my original birth name, and the name of my biological mother. My adoptive parents had mentioned that name to me only once when I was a young child.
Teresa Ramírez.
I looked up at her face in total shock. The woman’s eyes were filled with deep fear and tears.
“I am Teresa,” she whispered softly. “And that baby in the photo is you.”
On that single afternoon, within two short hours, I discovered that my husband was secretly selling my home, and that the woman who had given me up at birth had been quietly trailing my life for months. And yet, I still could not imagine what else Thomas had planned for when I was supposed to return.
PART 2
I didn’t hug Teresa right there in the coffee shop, nor did I break down crying. I simply slid the old photograph into my purse and looked her straight in the eye.
“Why were you following me?” I asked cold-headedly.
“Because I found you a few months ago,” Teresa explained, wringing her hands nervously. “I saw a staff picture of the fashion boutique where you work online. Your full name, your age, your face… I started to get suspicious.”
“Thirty-seven years too late,” I remarked bitterly.
Teresa lowered her gaze to the wooden table.
“I know,” she admitted quietly.
She offered no dramatic excuses for her past choices. She simply told me that she had gotten pregnant at sixteen, the father had vanished, and her family barely had enough money for food. Terrified of raising a baby in severe poverty, she signed the legal adoption papers.
“I actually came back to the agency a few months later,” she confessed. “But you were already placed with a wonderful family, and I didn’t have the courage to disrupt your life.”
I didn’t know whether to fully trust her story or not. However, I knew one thing for certain: thanks to this woman, I still owned my home today.
“I am going to do a DNA test,” I told her before standing up. “Until the lab results come back, I don’t want my daughter Chloe knowing anything about this.”
