Because a house can make you seem important…
But only life can show you what you’re actually made of.
Then my phone rang.
Daniel.
I already knew why.
Because someone had just knocked on the front door of that mansion.
And they were not there visiting.
I answered the fourth ringer.
“Who the hell is in my house?” he shouted.
I lay down in my chair.
Those papers were still drying next to me.
“They are the representatives of the new owner,” I said calmly.
“You shouldn’t make them wait.”
Silence.
Then panic.
“You can’t do this!” he said. “That’s my home!”
I almost smiled.
“My house,” I repeated. “What a curious word.”
Then I told him the truth.
“I had every right to sell it. The same right I had when I paid for it. The same right I had yesterday… when you beat me thirty times in a house that was never yours.”
He kept quiet.
“You wouldn’t,” he said.
“I have already done it.”
And I hung up.
