“I informed her that I wasn’t going to tell a lie,” my father said firmly.
I stood in place for several moments, unsure of how to respond.
My father gestured toward the document. “Yes, I signed it, Paige. Nobody coerced me into doing it, and I fully understood that the apartment title was being placed under your name.”
I leaned back against the vehicle behind me, feeling an overwhelming wave of exhaustion rather than instant joy. “I need you to formally execute a declaration before a notary public,” I stated.
“Let’s go take care of it right now,” he said, surprising me.
“Are you sure you want to go right now?” I asked.
“If we delay this, your mother will attempt to influence me again,” he explained quietly. “I’ve spent far too many years allowing her to speak on my behalf.”
That admission was the closest thing to a heartfelt apology I had ever heard from him.
Forty minutes later, we were standing inside a notary office in the commercial district. Walter executed a sworn statement confirming he was aware of the original transfer, gave his consent freely, and fully acknowledged my legal ownership of the property.
As we stepped back onto the sidewalk, I tucked the notarized document securely inside my bag.
My father paused near the entrance. “Paige,” he began hesitantly. “Regarding what happened with the stroller…”
“You don’t need to explain,” I interrupted gently.
