As I stepped off the elevator, I nearly tripped over a trash bag. Annoyed, I moved to push it aside—then froze. There, among a pile of bags, was my grandmother’s locket and my favorite gown. My things were in the trash.
Panic rising, I rushed to my apartment. My key wouldn’t turn. Inside, I heard laughter—Alan’s and a woman’s. When the door opened, it wasn’t Alan. It was Miranda, my mother-in-law.
“You don’t live here anymore,” she sneered, pointing at the trash.
Shock rooted me in place. “Where’s Alan?”
“Busy,” she said, as Lesley—Alan’s “childhood friend”—appeared behind her, wearing his hoodie.
Then came the truth: Lesley and Alan had been together the whole time. My marriage had been a lie. Alan appeared, smug. “You put me on the deed, remember? For taxes?” He was right—I had. They’d tricked me.
Furious, I left. That night, I stayed with my friend Casey and called Alyssa, a sharp family lawyer. I gave her everything: Grandma’s will, the deed, Alan’s messages, and a secret audio recording of Miranda revealing their year-long scheme.
Two weeks later, I returned with a court order and two officers. Alan’s registration was annulled. Lesley and Miranda were trespassers. They were given 20 minutes to leave.
As they left, I whispered, “Karma.” Miranda flinched.
The next day, Alan begged to talk. I blocked him.
I called my old boss and got my job back. I repainted the apartment, replaced Alan’s beige with colors I loved. Each morning now, I sip coffee and watch the sunrise, remembering:
They thought I was weak.
They were wrong.
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