My Husband Tried To Sell My Condo Behind My Back. He Didn’t Know I Kept The Deed A Secret For Four Years. Now He’s Facing Prison Time. Was I Wrong To Lie To Him?

The Lawyer’s Warning and My LoDo Sanctuary

I’m 62 years old now, and I’ve learned that the best decisions we make in life are often the ones that feel uncomfortable at the time. Back in 1995, when I was 32 and standing in that attorney’s office signing the deed to my very first condo in downtown Denver, my lawyer friend Sarah looked me dead in the eye and said something I’ll never forget.

“Emma, if you ever get married, think very carefully before you tell your husband about this place. Not all love stories have happy endings.” Sarah said.

I remember laughing it off, thinking she was being paranoid. Three years later, I’d be thanking God I took her advice.

Let me back up. I need to tell you how I got to that point, because the details matter. They always do.

In 1992, I’d just gotten promoted to senior marketing manager at a telecommunications company in Denver. I was making good money, better than I ever imagined I would, and for the first time in my life, I had something substantial in my savings account.

I’d been renting a small apartment in Capitol Hill, but I wanted something more, something that was truly mine. My mother had lost her house in her divorce when I was 16.

I watched her pack up 30 years of her life into cardboard boxes because she never thought to protect herself financially. My father’s lawyer argued that since he’d paid most of the mortgage, the house was primarily his.

My mother had nothing in writing to prove otherwise. That memory haunted me.

So when I had enough for a down payment, I started looking for a place to buy, not rent. Buy.

I wanted a deed with my name on it, something nobody could take from me. I found a beautiful two-bedroom condo in the LoDo district in 1995.

It was $175,000, which was a fortune back then. I put down 20%, $35,000, from 8 years of careful saving.

The mortgage was steep, but I could manage it. More importantly, it was mine.

The deed said Emma Marie Richardson and nobody else. Sarah helped me with all the paperwork and she made sure everything was in my name only.

“You’re smart, Em,” she told me over coffee after we finished the closing. “A lot of women don’t think about these things until it’s too late.”

“I learned from watching my mom,” I said.

“Good. Keep learning. Keep protecting yourself.” Sarah said.

I moved into that condo in April of 1995, and I loved every inch of it. I painted the walls myself, chose every piece of furniture, and made it exactly what I wanted.

For two years, it was my sanctuary. Just mine.

Then I met James Mitchell. It was the summer of 1997.

I was at a company networking event, and he was there representing some real estate investment firm. He was 34, charming, good-looking, and he had this way of making you feel like you were the only person in the room.

We talked for hours that night. He seemed successful, drove a nice car, and wore expensive suits.

He told me he was an entrepreneur, and that he had several business ventures going. I should have asked more questions about what those ventures actually were, but I didn’t.

I was charmed. We dated for a year and a half.

He was attentive, romantic, and took me to nice restaurants. He met Sarah, who was polite, but later pulled me aside.

“There’s something about him I can’t quite put my finger on. Just be careful, okay?” Sarah said.

I brushed her off. I was in love.

About 8 months into our relationship, James started dropping hints about moving in together.

“His lease was ending,” he said. “Why pay for two places when we spent every night together anyway?”

It made sense financially. I hesitated, remembering what Sarah had told me years ago, but love makes you do foolish things sometimes.

“We could save so much money,” James said, his hand on my knee as we sat on my couch. “Think about it, Em. We’re heading toward marriage anyway, right? Why wait?”

I agreed, but I made a decision. I didn’t tell him I owned the condo.

When he asked about the landlord, I was vague. I said I had a great arrangement with the building management.

He never pushed for details. He moved in September of 1998, bringing his clothes, his furniture, and his life into my space.

I loved having him there at first. It felt like playing house, like we were a real couple building a future.

Red flags started appearing almost immediately, but I ignored them. James never offered to pay any of the mortgage.

When bills came, he’d say, “You’ve got this one, babe. I’m a little short this month.”

It happened once, twice, a dozen times. He always had an excuse: a deal fell through, a client was late paying, or the market was slow.

Meanwhile, he still drove that nice car and still wore those expensive suits. He still took clients out to expensive lunches on his credit cards.

Then there was his mother. Patricia Mitchell arrived for a visit 3 months after James moved in.

She was a woman in her 60s, perfectly coiffed, dripping with jewelry that I later learned was all costume. She had this way of looking at my condo, my furniture, and my life like it was barely adequate.

“James deserves better than this,” she said to him, not quite under her breath, as she examined my kitchen. “When you two are married, you’ll need to upgrade.”

“Mom, it’s fine,” James said, but he wouldn’t look at me.

Patricia stayed for a week, the longest week of my life. She kept making comments about how I should let James handle the finances since men were better at that sort of thing.

She suggested I should put James’s name on the lease so he’d feel more invested in our home. She even went through my mail one day while I was at work.

I came home to find her sitting at my kitchen table looking through a stack of envelopes.

“Just trying to help organize,” she said with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

After she left, I called Sarah.

“Am I crazy or is his mother trying to take over my life?” I asked.

“You’re not crazy,” Sarah said. “Emma, please tell me you haven’t put his name on anything. The condo, your accounts, anything?”

“No, nothing,” I said.

“Thank God. Keep it that way.” Sarah said.