The house was Brett’s after his father’s demise. Its arrival felt like proof of progress. Rooms filled slowly with furniture and plans. It represented permanence, safety, and a shared investment. She believed walls could hold memories, that ownership meant belonging, even if paperwork placed the name elsewhere.
It had always felt mutual, even if legally it wasn’t. Decisions were discussed, expenses shared, and futures imagined together. She never doubted her place. The distinction between name and ownership seemed technical, irrelevant. Trust filled the gap documents left, reinforced daily by habit, affection, and years of shared life.