I was en route to the abortion clinic due to financial struggles and mounting debts, but I reversed course to retrieve my ID. In the mailbox was a letter: my childless aunt, whom I hadn’t seen in 20 years, left me her entire inheritance, but with one STRANGE condition…

His smile faded. «What’s wrong? Moody already? I didn’t sleep all night, making plans. Listen, I think sell the country house first.

Why do we need it? Invest in business. I’ve always wanted my own auto shop, remember?» He talked only about himself, his wants again. He didn’t even ask how I felt, what I planned.

I looked at him and said calmly. «Brandon, I’m leaving.» He froze for a second, then laughed.

«Good joke. You pouting over the name? Fine, we won’t use it. Name her something pretty, put Matilda on papers.

What’s the difference?» He clearly didn’t get it. He thought it was a game, a whim. «Not a joke,» I repeated, looking him in the eyes.

«I’m leaving you. Right now.» I grabbed my bag by the door.

Only now he noticed it. His face changed. Laughter gone, replaced by confusion, then fear.

But not fear of losing me. Animal fear of losing money. «What do you mean leaving? Where? You crazy? Ashley! We’re family! We’re having a kid!» He grabbed my arm, fingers squeezing my wrist too hard.

«I’m having a kid,» I corrected, freeing my hand. «You have nothing to do with it. You rejected it yourself yesterday morning.»

His face twisted. «But… I didn’t know! Everything’s changed! I love this kid! I love you! Ashley! Don’t be stupid! It’s hormones, I get it! Let’s sit, have tea, discuss like adults!» He tried manipulating again, old tricks. But they didn’t work anymore.

«Nothing to discuss, Brandon! I saw everything yesterday! Saw who you really are! I don’t want my daughter growing up near someone like you!» I headed for the exit. He blocked the door. His old confidence was gone.

Now he looked pathetic. «Ashley! Please, don’t go!» he whined. «What’ll I do without you? I’ll be lost! I’ll change, I swear! Get a job! Take care of you! Just don’t leave now, when we have this chance!» Chance.

There it was, the key word. Not when we’re having a kid, but when we have a chance. I silently stepped around him and opened the front door.

«Those are my money too!» he suddenly yelled at my back. His voice cracked. «You can’t just leave with them! We lived together! It’s joint property!» I turned and looked at him with cold disgust.

«It’s inheritance, Brandon. And it’s mine. Goodbye now!» I left the apartment and slammed the door, cutting off his yells and pleas.

I felt no gloating, no relief. Just emptiness. The notary’s office was quiet, smelling of old books and good coffee.

Victor Peterson was an elderly, refined man with kind eyes behind glasses. He spoke softly and respectfully, explaining each document point. He said Matilda had been his client for years.

She had a tough fate but a huge heart, he said, handing me a bundle of heavy antique keys. She wanted this inheritance in reliable hands, bringing happiness. She believed in you, Ashley.

His words warmed me. Someone believed in me. Believed enough to entrust her whole estate and last dream.

I signed all papers, and Victor handed me a folder. Here, all ownership documents and keys. You know the address.

The apartment is fully yours. I left the office, clutching the folder and keys tightly. They were heavy.

The weight of my new life. Aunt Matilda’s home was in the heart of the old town. I’d passed it many times, admiring the molding on the facade and massive oak doors.

I never imagined entering as owner. The lobby greeted me with cool marble steps and a wide staircase with wrought-iron rails. No comparison to my old place with graffiti walls and stinking trash chute.

I went to the third floor and found the door. Upholstered in dark leather with a shiny brass plaque: Hawthorne M. I inserted the largest key. It turned with a dull, solid click.

I pushed the door and froze on the threshold. Afternoon sun rays pierced in, lighting dust motes dancing in the air. It smelled faintly familiar and cozy: lavender, wax, old books.

This wasn’t just an apartment; it was a world. Huge living room with high ceiling, heavy velvet curtains, floor-to-ceiling bookcases filled with leather-bound volumes, massive dark wood desk, deep comfortable armchairs. Everything spoke of dignity, peace, unhurried life, so unlike my endless survival race.

I walked the rooms slowly. Bedroom with huge bed under lace canopy, study with antique maps on walls, bright spacious kitchen with real porcelain in glass cabinet. No modern appliances or trendy furniture, but soul.

The hostess’s soul, who loved her home. I felt her presence in every detail: embroidered napkin on dresser, sheet music on piano, old photos in silver frames. On the living room mantel, I saw it.

A small, elegant box of birch wood. My heart skipped. I approached and carefully opened the lid.

Inside, on faded blue velvet, lay it: my silver spoon engraved «M.» The very one Aunt Matilda gave me 20 years ago. She’d kept it.

All these years, she’d preserved this spoon as a reminder of the little girl, her only grand-niece. I took it in my hands. The cold metal warmed in my palm.

And at that moment, I knew I was home. Truly home. For the first time in my adult life, I felt completely safe.

I wasn’t alone. I had my Aunt Matilda, her memory, her home. And I had my little Matilda, living quietly inside me….