I rang the doorbell, hands trembling.
Gary opened the door. His face lit up for a moment—then fell when he saw my expression. He knew.
He stammered. “It was just talk. You know how guys are…”
“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.
“Add it to your collection of lies.”
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.
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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