We had been married for ten years—ten years during which I, Vanessa, gave everything I had. I wasn’t merely a wife. I became his anchor, his constant presence, and for the last three years, I served as his father’s full-time caregiver.
My father-in-law, Arthur, was once a titan in real estate—a self-made man who built a seventy-five-million-dollar empire from nothing. But wealth means nothing to cancer. When illness took hold, his son—my husband, Curtis—was suddenly “too busy.” Busy with meetings that never seemed urgent, golf games, and friends who loved the sound of their own voices. He told me watching his father deteriorate was “bad for his mental health,” that he needed to “stay focused.”
So I stepped in.
I cleaned Arthur when he was sick. I sat beside him as morphine blurred his memories and turned his past into half-formed stories. Every morning, I read him the newspaper. In the quiet hours before dawn, when fear tightened its grip, I held his hand. Curtis would stop by occasionally—perfectly groomed—to pat his father’s arm and casually ask, “Did he mention the will today?”
I didn’t want to see what that meant. I believed I loved Curtis. I told myself his distance was grief, not cruelty. I was wrong.
The day Arthur passed away, my world collapsed. I had lost a man who had become a father to me. But for Curtis, it was as though life had just opened its doors. At the funeral, he cried—beautifully, convincingly—wiping tears with a silk handkerchief while discreetly sizing up the businessmen in attendance, calculating fortunes by the cut of their suits.
Two days after the burial, the truth surfaced.
I came home exhausted from arranging cemetery details, eyes swollen from crying—and found my suitcases dumped in the entryway. Nothing was folded. My clothes were shoved inside, shoes scattered, sleeves hanging out like afterthoughts.
“Curtis?” I called, confused.
He descended the stairs calm and polished. No signs of mourning. He wore an immaculate shirt, an expensive watch, and held a champagne glass. He looked energized—and frightening.
“Vanessa, my dear,” he said smoothly, “I think it’s time we go our separate ways.”
I dropped my keys. “What are you talking about?”
“My father is gone,” he said lightly, sipping his drink. “Which means I inherit everything. Seventy-five million dollars. Do you understand what that means?”
“It means a huge responsibility,” I began.
He laughed sharply, the sound echoing through the empty house.
“Responsibility?” He sneered. “There is no ‘we.’ You were useful when Dad needed someone to clean him and feed him. A free nurse. But now? You’re dead weight. You’re ordinary. No ambition. No refinement. You don’t belong in my life as a wealthy bachelor.”
The words crushed me.
“I’m your wife,” I said. “I cared for your father because I loved him—and because I loved you.”
“And I appreciate that,” he replied, pulling out a check and tossing it at my feet. “Ten thousand dollars. Payment for services. Take it and leave. I want you gone before my lawyer arrives. I’m renovating everything. The house smells old… and like you.”
I tried to reason with him. I reminded him of ten years together. It didn’t matter.
Security arrived. I was escorted out into the rain while Curtis watched from the upstairs balcony, finishing his champagne.
That night, I slept in my car in the parking lot of a twenty-four-hour grocery store. I felt shattered—humiliated, disposable, erased. Had I spent ten years loving a stranger? The man I believed in never existed. Only a predator waiting for the right moment.
Three weeks passed. I searched for a small apartment, tried to rebuild my life, and received divorce papers. Curtis wanted it fast. Clean. As if I were something to be wiped away so he could enjoy his fortune unencumbered.
Then the notice arrived.
see next page to continue reading
To see the full instructions for this recipe, go to the next page or click the open button (>) and don't forget to share it with your friends on Facebook.
