When the gavel fell, James thought he’d won it all — the house, the cars, the money. I laughed quietly. He didn’t know the home he “won” came with my mother’s lifetime right to live there. Her name was on the deed he never read.
While he toasted his “victory,” she brewed tea in his kitchen. Every complaint met the same reply: “You agreed to that.”
I moved to a small apartment, built a thriving business, and found peace. He stayed trapped in a mansion he couldn’t sell, haunted by the scent of her cooking and his own greed.
He wanted ownership. I found freedom.
He got the house.
I got my life back.
