The day we stepped onto that empty lot, I could see everything we had hoped for taking shape. Roger and I had spent years dreaming—saving, planning, doodling designs during coffee chats. We envisioned every detail of our future home, right down to the farmhouse sink.
Roger offered to manage the paperwork—said it would be simpler that way. I didn’t question it. He was my husband. I trusted him.
We moved in on a crisp autumn morning. I was filled with joy—until things began to shift.
Roger became distant. More frequent business trips. Murmured phone calls behind closed doors. Then one quiet afternoon, I found the deed.
Rachel.
He had signed the house over to his “assistant” before we even moved in. While I was choosing paint colors, he was making sure I had no legal claim to our home.
That night, I made his favorite meal. Lit a candle. Placed the deed on the table.
He froze. Fumbled for an excuse. I said nothing.
The next day, I walked into the top divorce lawyer’s office in town. The deed transfer? Fraudulent. The house? Reclaimed as marital property. Rachel disappeared. Roger had to sell it to pay me my share.
Now, I live in a peaceful little beach house. Nothing extravagant—but it’s all mine.
Roger tried to write me out of the story.
Instead, he erased himself.
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