« Two-thirds, » he murmured.
I was breathless.
He continued:
« When everything collapsed, I panicked. I started moving money. I told you we had extra taxes and the roof needed repairs. I thought I’d make ends meet before you found out anything. »
I clenched my fists.
« And instead, you went behind my back and tried to intimidate a ninety-two-year-old woman into selling her house—the only place I ever felt at home? »
« I didn’t want it to come to this. »
« But you did it. And you lied to me. For a year. »
He stood up and came over to me.
« Mira, please. I know I messed up. But I did it for us. For the girls. Don’t throw our lives away because of one mistake. »
« A mistake? » I sneered bitterly. « You squandered our savings. You manipulated my dying grandmother. You made me doubt even my own grief. It’s not a mistake, Paul. It’s who you are. »
We argued for hours. I yelled. He cried. He begged me not to « destroy the family, » promised he would fix everything. Promises of therapy, of truth, of never lying again.
But I couldn’t even look at it anymore.
That night, I slept on the sofa. The next morning, I called a lawyer.
At the end of the month, the divorce papers were filed. I didn’t shout, I didn’t slam doors. I let my lawyer handle the chaos and I protected the girls as much as possible. Paul left two weeks later. I kept the house. The one that, in any case, had never really been his.
I changed the locks. I repainted the living room. I found an old photo of my grandmother and me baking cakes, and I put it on the mantelpiece. I framed her letter and hung it in my office, not as a reminder of the betrayal, but as a token of love.
Because in the end, she protected me. Even from the man who, once, had promised me he would never hurt me.
And that, more than anything else, is what saved me
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