He smiled that same polished grin I’d once mistaken for charm, his hand resting on the stack of legal documents that handed him everything — the house, the cars, the accounts, even the furniture we’d picked when forever still meant something.
On paper, I’d lost.
But when I zipped my bag and let out a quiet laugh, I knew something he didn’t. He thought he’d won. He had no idea he’d just sentenced himself to his own downfall.
We met ten years ago. He was all confidence and smooth promises — the dreamer who swore he’d “build us a future.” I mistook his hunger for ambition, his vanity for vision. Every promotion became a bigger performance — new suits, fancier dinners, another car for the driveway.
He didn’t love me. He loved the image we created together. I was the accessory that made his reflection shine brighter. But he never noticed the one thing he should have — my mother.
When we bought the house, we couldn’t afford the down payment. My mother stepped in, wrote the check, and asked for only one thing: to live in the downstairs suite for the rest of her life.
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