I had nothing left.
At thirty-four, I had been a widow for barely four months. My husband, Daniel, died without warning, taking with him not just my partner—but the fragile stability we had fought so hard to build. He worked endlessly, yet what we earned was just enough to survive.
When he was gone… everything collapsed.
The tiny room we rented was no longer affordable. Neighbors who once smiled now avoided eye contact. The helping hands slowly disappeared.
Because the truth is cruel… even kindness has limits.
And I understood that.
Five months pregnant. No job. No family nearby. No one to lean on. Just a small amount of savings—money meant for my baby, for emergencies… for survival.
Then came the final blow: I had one week to leave.
That’s when I overheard it—two women at the market talking about an abandoned house up in the mountains. Old. Falling apart. No one wanted it. The government was practically giving it away.
Most people would have walked away.
But I didn’t.
That same day, I went to ask about it. The man at the office looked at me with pity.
“It’s in ruins. No water. No electricity. Far from everything,” he warned.
I only asked one thing.
“How much?”
Three thousand pesos.
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