My Mother Demanded I Divorce My Husband And Give Him Our House Because He Got My Sister Pregnant. Little Do They Know, I’m A Cfo And Have Already Secured The Assets. How Do I Tell Them They’re Now Trespassing On My Property?

The Aftermath

The revelation about the baby was the nuclear bomb that vaporized what was left of their alliance. I didn’t have to do anything else; I just watched the fallout from a safe distance.

Greg was arrested for assault that day in my office. He spent a night in a cell. When he got out, he had nowhere to go. My parents refused to take him back in. After all, he was no longer the father of their grandchild; he was just a broke, violent man who had humiliated them.

Barbara’s life imploded. My parents, faced with the shame of a daughter pregnant by a random gym trainer and the loss of their “rich son-in-law” fantasy, turned on her.

“How could you be so stupid?”

I heard my mother scream at her over the phone. (Again, thanks for the updates, Mike).

“You had a golden goose and you killed it!”

They didn’t care about the morality. They cared that the grift had failed.

Greg filed for an annulment based on fraud, claiming Barbara had tricked him into marriage. He also tried to sue me again, representing himself because he couldn’t afford a lawyer. The judge threw out the case in 5 minutes and ordered him to pay my legal fees. Since he couldn’t pay, he had to declare bankruptcy.

And the baby? The trainer turned out to be a 20-year-old college student with no money and no interest in being a father. Barbara was facing single motherhood with zero assets, living in her childhood bedroom listening to her mother complain daily about what a financial drain she was.

About two months later, I got a letter from Greg. It was forwarded to my office.

Veronica, I know I messed up. I was weak. Barbara manipulated me. She played on my insecurities. I never stopped loving you. I was confused. Please, let’s talk. I’m living out of my car. I have nothing. You were the only good thing that ever happened to me. Please give me a second chance.

I read it twice. 10 years ago, I would have cried. I would have thought, “He’s hurting, I need to help him.” But I looked at the handwriting, at the same hand that had signed away my dignity for a house he didn’t own.

I took a red marker. I wrote RETURN TO SENDER on the envelope and dropped it in the shredder. I didn’t hate him anymore. I just didn’t care. He was a stranger. A lesson learned the hard way.

The implosion of the Miller clan was total. My parents, without my monthly assistance, couldn’t afford their lifestyle. They had to put their suburban house up for sale—the house where I grew up, the house where I was always second best. They moved into a small two-bedroom apartment in a less desirable neighborhood.

Barbara had to get a job, a real job. She started working as a receptionist at a dental clinic. Mike told me she looks 10 years older and complains to anyone who will listen about how her “evil sister” stole her inheritance. But no one listens. People in town saw the police cars. They know the truth.

Greg left the city. Rumor has it he moved back to his hometown to live with his brother, working in a call center.

I maintained absolute no contact. I changed my number. I moved into a new home, a sleek modern penthouse downtown, far from the suburbs. I sold the house on Maple Street to a nice young couple. I didn’t want the memories.

One rainy afternoon 6 months later, I ran into my mother at the grocery store. It was inevitable in a city this size, I suppose. She looked fragile. Her hair wasn’t its usual perfect blonde; gray roots were showing.

She saw me and stopped her cart.

“Veronica,”

she said, her voice wavering.

I stopped. I didn’t run. I stood my ground.

“Cynthia.”

“We miss you,”

she said, tears welling in her eyes.

“Your father… he hasn’t been well. His heart. We could use some help.”

There it was. The hook. The guilt. His heart. Help. I looked at this woman who had told me to give my husband to my sister, who had called me greedy, who had valued me only as long as I was useful.

“I’m sorry to hear that,”

I said politely.

“Your insurance covers cardiac conditions. You should give them a call.”

“Veronica,”

she gasped.

“We’re your family.”

“No,”

I said, leaning in close so she could hear every word.

“You made your choice. You chose Barbara. You chose the lie. You don’t get to come back to the truth just because the lie stopped paying the bills. I am your mother, you are my egg donor,”

I said.

“And my tormentor. I am done paying for my own humiliation.”

I walked past her. I didn’t look back. I bought my groceries—expensive cheese, a nice bottle of wine, things I like—and walked out into the rain. But this time, the rain felt clean. It felt like a baptism.