“No,” I said. “Don’t you dare. You made me believe you cared. You let me grieve beside you. You made me think I had something real.”
I reached into my bag and pulled out the card—the one written with love, hope, and hard-earned trust. I dropped it on the floor between us.
I turned and walked away.
The Final Blow — and the Beginning of the Truth
Weeks passed. I told no one. I barely slept. I couldn’t eat the lemon bars I had brought home. They tasted like betrayal.
Eventually, I contacted my mother’s attorney and requested a copy of her will. Something in me needed answers—needed control, maybe justice.
When I opened the envelope, I felt the breath leave me again—but for a different reason.
“The house is yours, Jenna. Sole beneficiary. Your mother left everything to you.”
Gary wasn’t mentioned. Not once.
The man who “stayed for the house” had no legal claim to it. It had never been his.
The Return
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