Days bled into each other as I combed through the house, each room whispering stories I had missed. The library, once filled with my favorite novels, now housed files and documents that cataloged a history I was absent for. I found a folder labeled ‘Property Management,’ a thick stack of papers that detailed every transaction and decision made in my absence.
Each page was a revelation, exposing the gradual erosion of my family’s life. There were letters from banks, notices of late payments, and correspondence with lawyers. None of it bore my handwriting, yet every decision had been signed off in my name.
“I thought you were handling all of this,” I confronted the house manager, trying to keep my voice steady.
He met my gaze briefly before looking away. “All instructions were followed as per the documents, sir,” he said, his tone professional but evasive.
“But whose instructions?” I pressed, frustration boiling beneath my calm facade.
His silence was telling, the tension in the room palpable. I realized then the extent of the charade that had played out in my absence, and I was determined to uncover who had orchestrated it.
Anna’s presence in the mansion was a constant reminder of the personal betrayal. Each interaction was strained, as if the air between us was charged with unsaid words and unanswered questions.
One evening, as we stood in the kitchen, the hum of the refrigerator the only sound, I tried again. “Anna, I need to know how this happened. Why didn’t you reach out?”
She hesitated, her eyes flickering with a mix of defiance and regret. “I didn’t want to burden you, Dad. You’ve been gone so long, and I… I thought I could handle it.”
Her words were daggers, each one slicing through the fragile veneer of the life I thought I had preserved for us.
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