It all began with a smile—Jack’s trademark expression, polished and charming, the kind of smile that had once swept me off my feet but, over time, had started to feel more like a mask. One evening, he sat across from me at the kitchen table, folded his hands like a man with a grand vision, and said, “Honey, I’ve been thinking. What if we sell your apartment and my parents’ house? We could combine the money, buy something bigger, something better. A real family home—one my mother can own. She is the head of the family, after all.”
I felt my stomach tighten. My apartment was the one thing in my life that was purely mine, the product of years of saving before I married him. His parents’ house? That was their retirement nest egg. And now he wanted to hand both over to his mother, framing it as some noble family investment. My instincts screamed that something wasn’t right, but I forced my voice into calmness.
“That’s quite the plan,” I replied carefully. “But what happens if we split up? Where would that leave me?”
Jack chuckled, brushing the concern aside like it was ridiculous. “Don’t be silly. We’re solid. This isn’t about splitting up—it’s about being practical, about supporting the family.”
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