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 First Confrontation

I heard the front door open downstairs. Heavy footsteps. He was here. I took a deep breath, straightened my clothes, and stood up. The weeping wife was gone; the auditor was in.

Greg walked into the house like he owned it. He didn’t look remorseful; he looked annoyed, like a man who had been inconvenienced by a tedious errand. Tucked under his arm was a stack of flattened cardboard boxes.

“Veronica,”

he said, seeing me at the top of the stairs.

“Glad you’re here. We need to get this moving.”

I walked slowly down the stairs, my hand sliding along the banister I had sanded and stained myself 3 years ago.

“Get what moving exactly?”

“The transition,”

he said, dropping the boxes in the entryway.

“Barb’s hormones are all over the place. She’s getting anxious. The baby can feel the stress, you know. We need to be settled here by the weekend so I can get the nursery ready.”

I stopped on the last step, looking him in the eye.

“You will not be setting up a nursery in my house, Greg.”

He rolled his eyes.

“Here we go. I told your mother you were going to be difficult. Look, Veronica, let’s be adults about this. This house has four bedrooms. It’s too big for one person. You’re never here anyway; you live at the office. Barb and I are starting a family. We need the space. It’s just logical.”

“Logical?”

I let out a dry, disbelieving laugh.

“Logical would be you moving into an apartment you can afford, which by my calculations is a cardboard box under an overpass.”

His face darkened. The charm evaporated, revealing the malice underneath.

“Don’t you start with the money, Veronica. That’s all you have, isn’t it? Your money. You think it makes you better than everyone.”

“It pays the mortgage,”

I said calmly,

“something you haven’t done in 5 years.”

“I contributed in other ways,”

he yelled, his face turning red.

“I managed the household. I took care of things. I provided you with emotional support.”

“You slept with my sister?”

I countered.

“Is that emotional support?”

“I slept with her because she appreciates me!”

He stepped closer, trying to use his height to intimidate me. It used to work. It didn’t today.

“She looks at me like a man, not a bank account. You pushed me away, Veronica. You were cold. You were distant. You were, for all intents and purposes, barren.”

The word hung in the air. Barren. He knew how much it hurt. He knew about the IVF shots, the hormones, the crushing devastation of every negative result. He was using my pain as a weapon to justify his betrayal.

“I was trying to have your baby,”

I whispered, my voice shaking slightly despite my best efforts.

“I put my body through hell for you.”

“Yeah, well, it didn’t work,”

he said cruelly.

“And it did for Barb. Naturally, effortlessly. Maybe that’s a sign, Veronica. Maybe we weren’t meant to have kids. Maybe nature knew you weren’t mother material.”

I felt as if a slap would have hurt less. But I didn’t hit him. I just looked at him, memorizing this moment. This was the closure I needed. There was no love left here, only rot that needed to be cut out.

“Pack your things,”

I said, my voice turning to ice.

“Your personal effects. Clothes, toiletries. You are not taking the electronics. You are not taking the furniture. And you are damn sure not taking the car.”

“The hell I’m not,”

he sneered.

“This is marital property. I talked to a lawyer friend. Half of everything is mine, including this house. My retirement savings—well, yours, since we’re married.”

He smirked.

“So you can do this the easy way—sign the house over to me as part of the settlement and I won’t come after your 401k—or we can go to court and I’ll take half your precious company stock too. Your choice.”

He thought he had me in checkmate. He thought he knew the law.

“Pack your clothes, Greg,”

I repeated.

“You have 1 hour before I change the locks.”

“You can’t change the locks. This is the marital home.”

“Actually,”

I said, checking my watch,

“I can. But go ahead, call the police.”

“I’d love to explain to them why my husband is trying to move his pregnant mistress, my sister, into my home.”

He stared at me, seeing that I wasn’t backing down. He grabbed the boxes and stormed upstairs. I could hear him slamming drawers, throwing things around. I went to the kitchen and poured myself a glass of water. My hands were steady now.

He had just admitted his strategy: blackmail. He wanted to trade my retirement for the house. He wanted to bleed me dry to build a nest for Barbara.

He didn’t know about the LLC. He didn’t know the house wasn’t technically in my name, or his. He didn’t know the car was a company lease. He was playing checkers; I was playing 4D chess.

20 minutes later, I saw him dragging three suitcases downstairs. He had grabbed the PlayStation too. I let him have it; it was a small price to pay to be rid of him.

“You’ll be hearing from my lawyer,”

he spat as he walked out.

“Don’t think you’ve won. Mom and Dad are on my side. Everyone’s on my side. You’re going to end up a lonely, bitter old hag with nothing but your cats and your Excel spreadsheets. Goodbye, Greg,”

I said.

He slammed the door so hard the windows rattled. I walked over and shot the deadbolt. Then I slid the chain lock into place. I was alone in the big quiet house, but for the first time in years, it didn’t feel empty. It felt clean.