I sat by the fire, surrounded by photos and memories of Jim—our marriage over in a flash. My mother, cold and composed, repeated, “He never deserved you. We’ll find someone better.”
I said nothing. Then I found a half-burned letter addressed to Jim. My name caught the light. I pulled it out.
It was from my mother: “Our agreement still stands. If you leave my daughter, I will pay for…” The rest was gone.
I found Jim at the hospital, holding a woman’s hand—his sister.
“She needed treatment,” he said quietly. “Your mother offered to help… if I left you.”
“You should’ve told me.”
“I thought hating me would hurt less.”
Later, I told my mother I knew everything. “You’ll finish paying for her care,” I said. “And stay out of my life.”
That night, I returned to Jim.
“She’s helping now,” I said. “And maybe… we can try again.”
He smiled—tired, but hopeful.
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