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?

James proposed that December on Christmas Eve. It was romantic, everything I thought I wanted.

We got married in February of 1999, a small ceremony with just family and close friends. My mother was there looking worried the entire time.

She pulled me aside before I walked down the aisle.

“Emma honey, I need to ask you something. Did you get a prenuptial agreement?” my mother asked.

“No, Mom. James said it meant I didn’t trust him.” I said.

Her face fell.

“Baby, after what happened to me, I thought you’d know better.” my mother said.

“I kept the condo in my name only,” I whispered. “He doesn’t know I own it.”

For the first time that day, my mother smiled.

“Smart girl. That’s my daughter.” she said.

The Forged Signature and the Predator’s Mask

Three months into our marriage, everything changed. It was a Tuesday morning in May, and I had just got into work when my assistant buzzed my office.

“Emma, there’s a call for you on line two. Says it’s urgent. Something about your property.” my assistant said.

My stomach dropped. I picked up the phone.

“Mrs. Mitchell, this is Linda Rodriguez from Front Range Closing Services. I’m calling about your upcoming property sale. We just need to verify a few details for the closing next week.” she said.

The room started spinning.

“I’m sorry, what sale?” I asked.

There was a pause.

“The sale of your property at 1842 Blake Street, unit 304. We have you listed as the seller.” Linda said.

That was my address, my condo.

“There must be some mistake,” I said, my voice shaking. “I’m not selling my property.”

Another pause, longer this time.

“Ma’am, we have a signed contract here. The buyers have already put down earnest money. The closing is scheduled for next Tuesday at 2 p.m.” Linda said.

“Who signed that contract?” I asked.

“According to our records, you did. We have your signature on file.” she replied.

I hung up and immediately called Sarah.

“I need you now. Someone is trying to sell my condo.” I said.

She was at my office within 30 minutes. We drove to the closing company together.

Linda Rodriguez was a small woman in her 50s who looked very confused when we walked in.

“I need to see that contract,” Sarah said, her lawyer voice fully activated.

Linda pulled the file. There on page 12 was a signature: Emma Richardson Mitchell.

It looked like my handwriting, but it wasn’t. I never signed this.

“This is forgery,” Sarah said flatly. “Who brought you this contract?”

Linda checked her notes.

“A James Mitchell. He said his wife, that’s you, was too busy to come in person, so she’d signed everything at home.” Linda said.

My heart stopped. My husband did this.

Sarah was already pulling out her phone.

“Linda, I need copies of everything in that file. Emma, don’t say anything else. We’re going to the police.” Sarah said.

The next few hours were a blur. We filed a police report and I called my bank and had them pull the original deed.

My name only. My name crystal clear.

Then Sarah and I went home to my condo, where James was lounging on my couch watching my TV.

“Hey, babe,” he said when I walked in. “You’re home early.”

“We need to talk,” I said. My voice didn’t sound like my own.

“Sure, what’s up?” James asked.

Sarah stepped into view behind me. James’s expression changed instantly.

Guilt flashed across his face before he could hide it.

“Want to tell me about the contract you signed to sell my condo?” I asked.

“I can explain,” he started.

“You forged my signature,” Sarah cut in. “That’s a felony, James.”

He stood up, hands out in a placating gesture.

“Em, listen. It’s not what you think. I was trying to help us. This place, it’s too small. I found us a buyer, and with the profit we could upgrade, get something better, something bigger for when we have kids.” James said.

“This is my condo,” I said slowly. “Mine, not ours. I bought it 3 years before I met you. The deed is in my name only. You have no right to sell it.”

His face went pale.

“What do you mean, your condo? I thought we were renting.” James asked.

“You thought wrong.” I said.

There was a long silence. I watched the emotions play across his face: confusion, then realization, then something ugly—anger.

“You lied to me,” he said. “All this time you owned this place and you never told me. What kind of wife does that?”