Purchased years before the marriage. I had never known. I never interfered in his finances.
I trusted him to live his life as he saw fit. There was more. A copy of his will.
The contact information of his lawyer. And a folded note, written in his familiar handwriting. He wrote about how much he loved me.
How he wanted things to be fair once he was gone. He explained that he had bought that house long ago, dreaming of giving it to his future children someday. But life didn’t give him children.
So he made a decision. The house bought during the marriage would go to his wife, even though she had never invested a cent—because he didn’t want her left without a roof. Even after her cruelty.
Even after her betrayal. The other house went to me. Because he wanted me to feel safe.
