About three years ago, Anton bought a small house on the outskirts of the city as a future investment. It was in a quiet neighborhood—not too far from downtown, yet peaceful enough for living. But since the purchase, he had never once visited it again. Life, work, and responsibilities in another city made the house fade from his mind.
Until one dry season morning, Anton finally decided to pay the house a visit. He brought along the old, rusted key, walking slowly through streets that now felt strangely unfamiliar.
But when he arrived at the house… Anton froze in disbelief.
“Whose house is this?” he muttered.
The place had completely transformed. The old rusty fence was gone. A sturdy canopy now stood over the front yard, which had been covered in glossy ceramic tiles. In bold letters, a large sign read:
“Car & Motorcycle Wash – Full Service! Open 24 Hours.”
There was even a cold tea stand set up neatly on one side of the yard.
Thinking he must’ve gotten the wrong address, Anton quickly called his son, asking for a photo of the house deed. He compared the address and number—it matched exactly.
“No way… This is my house!”
Still trying to make sense of things, Anton walked around to the side of the property. He remembered an older woman, Mrs. Widuri, who had once called him years ago to ask if she could sell nasi uduk (traditional rice dish) on the front porch. Feeling generous, Anton had agreed.
But this—a full commercial operation—was a far cry from what he had permitted.
Curious and frustrated, he asked around. A neighbor mentioned that Mrs. Widuri had moved about three blocks away. Not satisfied, Anton went inside the car wash and spoke to the woman at the cashier’s counter.
“Excuse me, whose business is this?”
The woman narrowed her eyes.
“Who are you?” she asked, somewhat rudely.
Anton took a deep breath, suppressing his anger, and calmly explained that he was the owner of the house, showing her the deed photo from his phone.
Her face changed immediately—from confrontational to nervous.
She admitted they had rented the place from Mrs. Widuri, who had claimed to be the rightful owner.
Now fuming, Anton insisted they take him to see her. They eventually found Mrs. Widuri staying at her relative’s home in Block J. She looked frail, visibly emotional, and quickly burst into tears.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Anton,” she cried. “I was kicked out by my stepson. I had no income, nowhere to go… I needed money… so I rented out the house to survive…”
“A full year’s rent—already collected.”
Anton lost it.
“You had no right! That’s MY house! Shut down all those businesses immediately! If anyone refuses, I’ll report you to the police!”
He stormed out, returning to his hotel that night—drained, emotionally and physically. He stared out the hotel window, wondering how someone could take advantage of his kindness so completely.
But later that evening, the business owner and Mrs. Widuri came to visit, pleading for forgiveness. They asked Anton to let them continue operating the business—this time, properly, and with payment sent directly to him.
Anton paused. His anger hadn’t fully faded, but a sliver of compassion lingered.
Finally, he agreed—with strict conditions: the agreement had to be written, signed, and sealed with an official stamp. Payment would be transferred before he returned to his city, and the house had to be vacated next year—no extensions.
He left the next day. Tired, but with some peace of mind. He had reclaimed what was rightfully his.
Anton learned something important that week:
Sometimes, kindness opens the door to betrayal.
But sometimes, offering a second chance—when done with caution—can bring a little dignity back into a chaotic world.
