I thought buying a comfortable house would be my new start until I found a grumpy old man at my door, holding his key. We’d both been ripped off, and neither of us was ready to leave. Let the war begin.
I’d gone 72 years without a single scandal. No fraud, not even a traffic ticket. Well, except for that one time. But honestly, I maintain it wasn’t my fault.
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I liked to think I was shrewd. Cautious. The kind of woman who double-checks locks and never falls for “limited-time offers.” And yet, somehow, I still managed to buy a house through a scam. A very convincing scam, of course.
But what a house!
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Cozy, with a lush garden and a veranda where I imagined myself knitting, sipping tea, and chatting with my parrots. A fresh start. A peaceful life.
At least that’s what I thought.
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I pulled into the driveway, ready to embrace my new beginning, until I saw Him.
A man. Tall. Crouching. Holding a suitcase in one hand and a key in the other. He looked like a human raincloud, the kind that grumbles against sunny days out of spite.
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I frowned back. He frowned harder.
I checked my key. He checked his.
“You must be kidding me,” he muttered.
I wish that were the case. He grabbed the doorknob with his key at the same time I did.
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“Oh my,” I breathed.
“I bought this house.”
“Me too.”
With an exasperated grunt, he pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and held it up.
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“Paid in full. Signed, sealed, and delivered.”
I rummaged in my purse and took out my papers. I looked at his document. Then at mine. Then I looked at him.
“Well,” I breathed out, clutching my birdcage like a lifeline, “either we’re married or we got ripped off.”
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A series of frantic calls followed:
first to the real estate agency (which, of course, did not respond),
then to the police (who were very sympathetic but ultimately useless),
and finally, to a lawyer (who informed us, in the most professional manner possible, that we were in a very unfortunate situation).
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The con man who had masterminded this ridiculous scheme had disappeared without a trace. Untangling the skein would take months.
Which meant…
“Are we both stuck here?” I asked, looking up at the grumpy stranger.
“Unless you have somewhere else to go?”
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I pursed my lips.
“No. And you?”
“No.”
Well, that was awkward. I glanced at my bird, Thomas, who looked at me as if waiting for my next move. But, ever the optimist, I straightened my floral scarf and put on my best smile.
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“I guess we should introduce ourselves,” I said, extending a perfectly manicured hand. “My name is Eleanor. But please call me Ellie.”
The man stared at my hand as if it might explode. Then, after what seemed like an eternity, he reluctantly shook it.
“Walter.”
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I beamed. “Oh, Walter is so formal. I’ll call you Walt.”
His face twisted between horror and offense.
“No, you won’t.”
I let out a light laugh and gave him a light pat on the shoulder.
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“Oh, you grumps always say that, but you’ll get used to it. Everyone does.”
If looks could kill, I’d be the designated victim of the evening news. He moved his suitcase a little closer, as if I might suddenly claim it too.
I already knew it was going to be fun.
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***
Sharing a house with a grumpy old man was an ordeal I hadn’t prepared for, even in the worst-case scenarios. I’ve always been an optimist, the kind of woman who believes every problem can be solved with a little warmth, a touch of kindness, and maybe a fresh batch of cookies.
Walt, on the other hand, seemed allergic to happiness.
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The first battle lines were drawn over music.
I set up my vinyl player in the living room, placed the needle on my favorite waltz, and let the melody fill the air. With a delighted sigh, I twirled across the hardwood floor, arms dangling. My house slippers glided as if I were on the grand stage of a ballroom.
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That’s when I heard it. A loud, exaggerated throat clearing. I turned around to find Walter standing in the doorway with a sour expression.
“Is something wrong, Walt?” I asked kindly.
“Yeah. What in the name of reason are you doing?”
“Dancing! You’ll have to try it sometime. It releases all the tension in your…”
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He dragged himself to the chair and sat down. “It’s 9:00 a.m. Nobody dances at 9:00 a.m.”
“Correction – happy people do.”
He muttered something under his breath, grabbed the remote, and… “click.” Suddenly, my waltz was replaced by the monotonous drone of a news anchor discussing inflation. I jumped.
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“Did you just…”
“This house has a policy of not waltzing before noon,” he announced, adjusting the volume.
My parrot chirped, “Oh, did you hear that?!”
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***
The next morning, I invited my friends over for tea and a knitting session. We sat in the living room, chatting about everything from neighborhood gossip to which brand of tea had the best aftertaste.
It was charming. Cozy. Civilized.
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Until Walter decided to join us. Not by sitting down and being friendly.
No, no. He got his revenge by finding an old drill that, miraculously, needed to be used at full power for the exact duration of our conversation.
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“Are you serious?” I glared at him.
“Absolutely.”
“Do you know you’re childish?”
“Oh, trust me. This is just the beginning.”
Oh, that was just the BEGINNING. Okay. This game was two-player.
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***
In the evening, I filled the house with lavender and vanilla scented candles, letting the soothing aroma create the perfect ambiance. Then, I went out to run errands.
A few hours later, I came home from the store to find Thomas’s cage wide open, the window cracked.
“Walter! Where’s my bird?”
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He barely looked up from his newspaper. “Oh, that noisy thing? I thought it needed some fresh air too.”
“Did you release Thomas?”
“He has wings, Ellie. It seems unfair not to use them.”
But what Walter didn’t know was that Thomas was well trained and always came back when he was hungry.
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Which is exactly why, at dinner that evening, as we sat in complete silence, Thomas swooped down, landing directly on Walter’s plate. Thomas was drawn to the sweet aroma of the mango I had generously added to the salad.
Walter froze. Thomas blinked. Then, total chaos.
“Take it off!” Walter shouted, waving his arms as Thomas flapped his wings wildly. His wings sent pieces of lettuce flying.
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Thomas chirped, “Oh, did you hear that?!”
Of course, I burst out into a deep, guttural laugh. Walter finally freed himself from the invasion of feathers, his face red, his breath heavy.
“You did it on purpose!”
“Oh yes, Walter. I trained my parrot to ambush you over a mango salad,” I said between laughs.
But he wasn’t finished.
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That same evening, as I settled into bed, cucumbers on my eyelids, a cool clay mask drying on my face, I heard it.
Men’s voices. Laughter. Glasses clinking.
I removed the cucumbers and burst into the living room to find Walter and a group of his old friends sitting around the coffee table, playing poker. There were snacks everywhere, like it was a big casino night.
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“Walter! It’s three in the morning!”
He looked up, completely indifferent.
“Ah, you’re awake! Want to play a game? We play for money and bragging rights.”
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“This is my house!”
“Correction – our house.”
I went back to my room and grabbed my phone. Enough is enough.
It was time to speed up the expulsion.
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***
My lawyer had managed to speed up the process, and after two long months of battling, the official verdict arrived. The house was legally mine.
We’d both been swindled, but since I’d transferred the money first, the property legally belonged to me. Walter had just been a little more unlucky than me.
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I should have felt triumphant. After all, I had won. But despite my usual optimism, it was hard to ignore the heaviness settling in my chest.
I watched Walt pack from the doorway. He packed his books carefully, stacking them neatly in a box. When he picked up a small picture frame, his fingers traced the edges for a long moment before setting it down with a quiet sigh.
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“So,” I said, forcing lightness into my voice, “what’s next?”
He didn’t look up.
“I’ll manage.”
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For the first time, he wasn’t snapping at me. There was no sarcasm, no grumbling. Just a tired man losing another home. And for the first time, I realized I wasn’t just losing a grumpy roommate. I was losing something more.
Valentine’s Day was approaching. I wasn’t going to let him leave without one last dinner.
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***
On the last evening, Valentine’s Day, I set the table, lit the candles, and played the music I had heard in Walter’s room. The house, which had resembled a battlefield, now glowed with an unknown warmth.
When he entered the kitchen, he stopped dead in his tracks. His eyes fell on the table, the candlelight, the wine.
“What’s all this about?”
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“A farewell dinner. Unless you’d rather eat alone and rant at the walls.”
He huffed but pulled out a chair. We ate in silence, but for once, it wasn’t heavy. It was… comfortable.
Halfway through the meal, Walt put down his fork.
“I used to love dancing.”
“YOU ?”
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“My wife made me take lessons. She said it was romantic.” His fingers brushed the rim of his glass. “I haven’t danced since she died.”
And I realized… I knew nothing about Walter. I had seen him as a curmudgeon, but he had a story, a love, a loss that had shaped him.
“She must have been wonderful,” I said quietly.
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“She was.”
I hesitated. “I always wanted children. But it never happened. So, I filled my life with other things. My parrots… they’re ridiculous, but they gave me love when I needed it.”
Walter didn’t smile.
“No, I understand. We both built lives around what we lost.”
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A silent understanding settled between us. Then he stood up and extended his hand.
“Come on, let’s dance.”
“Are you serious?”
“Don’t make me change my mind.”
I placed my hand in his. His steps were hesitant, but when he slowly spun me around and pulled me back, something changed. I didn’t want him to leave.
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“Stay,” I said softly. “This is your home too.”
Across the room, Thomas chirped, “Oh, did you hear that?!”
And then he kissed me.
That night, I realized that happiness finds you when you stop running away from it. Sometimes it’s two people who find themselves in the mess of life and choose not to be alone anymore.
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