My Boyfriend Gave My House to His Three Childhood Friends Chapter 10

My Boyfriend Gave My House to His Three Childhood Friends Chapter 10

I used part of the money from the house sale to rent a small street-facing shop unit.

It wasn’t a big place. The front was a workspace, and the back was a small display room for my models.

I repaired the steam locomotive set my father had left me.

The broken coupling could never be restored exactly as it had been, so I chose to leave the mark there.

On opening day, I placed a photograph of my father beside the model.

When I was little, he used to tell me, “A house is just somewhere you keep your things. It only becomes a home when there’s someone there who genuinely looks forward to you coming back.”

I hadn’t understood him back then.

I thought that if I bought a house big enough and planned my future carefully enough, I could somehow have a home again.

Later, I learnt that people could live in your house, use your belongings, and even have permanent access to your front door without ever truly seeing you as family.

Six months after the studio opened, Ethan came by once.

He stood outside for a long time.

I was inside with a few fellow model enthusiasts, fine-tuning a new piece and chatting and laughing as we worked.

—

A group photo from opening day hung on the wall.

This time, I was standing right in the middle.

Ethan never came inside.

He simply handed a box to one of the employees.

Inside were the original house plans and a letter of apology.

I never opened the letter.

I fed the design plans straight into the shredder and sent the unopened letter back to him.

I had already decided what to do with the money my father left me.

The same went for my life.

I didn’t need anyone else to design a home for me, least of all a man who had once locked me out of my own home and now wanted to come back and tell me what a home was supposed to look like.

Later, the new owner sent me a photo.

The old livestreaming room had been turned into a child’s bedroom.

The barbecue setup on the terrace was gone, replaced by a few potted plants.

Three pairs of slippers sat in the entryway.

“Ms Carter, my family and I are very happy here. Thank you for selling us the house.”

I looked at the photo and sent back one line.

—

“I hope you and your family will be very happy there.”

Then I deleted the home management app from my phone.

The temporary passcode that had once belonged to me alone finally became useless for good.

I felt no regret.

It wasn’t until I left that house that I truly understood: permanent access had never meant permanent belonging.

A door could store any number of fingerprints.

But the person who ultimately decided who got to stay was always the owner.

And the rest of my life was mine to decide too.