They Said It Was A Gift—But What I Found In My Living Room Was A Trap

I took two days off work. Told Mark I needed quiet. Then I called Mrs. Dorsey back. She was sorry, sorry, sorry. Then she said, “I saw Bashir unlock your door. I know y’all didn’t give them a key. Then I saw them bring in big plastic bins. Not suitcases, honey. Bins. Like storage.”

Storage. Not a visit. A transfer.

Next, I called Rhea at a small real estate firm. “Humor me,” I said, already nauseous. “Is there any property paperwork with my name on it I don’t know about?”

Her email arrived thirty minutes later. Subject line: CALL ME NOW.

Three weeks earlier, a quitclaim deed had been filed. It transferred my half of the house—my half—to Mark. My name. My signature. My handwriting.

But not mine.

The witness? “V. Anwar.” His mother.

I steadied myself on the kitchen counter and watched the afternoon light wobble on the wall. My body knew before my brain did: this wasn’t panic. This was rage.

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