My ex-husband had a heart attack. We were divorced but still living under the same roof, so I tore through every drawer looking for his insurance card. What fell out instead was a property gift contract.
He had secretly transferred the house we'd spent half our lives paying for—signed it over to his first love while we were still married.
I took the contract to my children. My daughter, Imogen Swanson, rolled her eyes.
"Mom, Aunt Myra has no kids, no one. Don't you feel sorry for her at all? You had Dad your whole life. You're really going to fight over a house?"
My son, Marvin Swanson, snatched the contract out of my hands and threw it in my face. "Exactly! Dad's lying in the ER right now, and you're sitting here counting money. You're heartless!"
I looked at the two of them, united in their righteous defense of that woman, and I was so furious I laughed.
Fine. Since you're both so generous, I won't be paying his medical bills either.
I turned and walked out of the hospital, my fingers brushing the demolition settlement agreement tucked inside my bag. Two million dollars, freshly signed.
This money—I'd donate every last cent before I let any of them touch it.
……
"Effie Fox, what are you standing there for?"
"The doctor's asking for payment. Are you deaf?"
Marvin's roar exploded beside my ear.
I clutched the property gift contract, my fingertips ice-cold. On the paper, my husband Dean Swanson's name sat pressed right next to another woman's—Myra Finch's.
It burned to look at. It burned deeper to understand.
This was our home. Thirty years of marriage. A house we'd scraped together penny by penny, skipping meals, cutting corners.
Now it belonged to her.
I lifted my head and looked at my two wonderful children.
Imogen's face was pure impatience.
"Mom, Dad's in critical condition. Can you stop making a scene?"
"It's just a house."
"Aunt Myra's all alone in the world. Dad just felt sorry for her."
My hands trembled.
"Felt sorry for her? So he gives her our home?"
"When Dean Swanson was forcing me to sign divorce papers, did either of you feel sorry for me?"
Marvin shoved me aside.
"Enough!"
"You spent your whole life eating his food, living off his money. Now you're nickel-and-diming over a house? Have you no shame?"
I stumbled backward and hit the cold wall.
Eating his food. Living off his money.
From the day I married that man, I kept the house, raised the children, and waited on his parents hand and foot. He got to focus on his career because I held everything else together. Every single day.
None of that existed in their eyes.
All they could see was Myra Finch. No children, no family. Poor thing.
"The medical bills are your problem now."
I dropped the words like stones and turned to leave.
"Stop right there!"
Marvin rushed forward and blocked my path.
"You're the one holding all the money. If you don't pay, who will?"
I wrenched my arm free of his grip.
"Whoever's so generous and compassionate can pay. Whoever's got all that love and loyalty can foot the bill."
"Because I won't."
Imogen panicked and ran over, grabbing my arm.
"Mom, stop being stubborn, please?"
"Dad's still in there fighting for his life!"
"Do you really want to tear this family apart? Is that what it takes to make you happy?"
Just then, a soft, fragile voice drifted from the far end of the corridor.
"Imogen, Marvin, don't fight with your mother."
A middle-aged woman in a simple, elegant dress walked toward us. She was impeccably maintained, her face wearing just the right amount of worry and exhaustion.
Myra Finch.
The moment she appeared, my beloved children found their anchor.
"Aunt Myra!"
Imogen threw herself into the woman's arms, clinging to her like a wounded child.
Myra patted Imogen's back with practiced tenderness, then looked at me, her expression heavy with remorse.
"Effie, I'm sorry. This is all my fault."
"I never should have accepted the house from Dean. It put him in a terrible position, and it upset you."
As she spoke, she held out a photocopy of the property deed, pushing it toward me.
