When my late father’s will revealed an inheritance contingent on remaining married for five years, I thought I could handle it. However, my husband’s secret and my brother’s schemes shattered everything I believed.
As the lawyer opened the will, a tightness gripped my chest. The air felt heavy, making it hard to breathe. Outside, rain tapped insistently against the window, echoing the rapid beat of my heart.
The lawyer’s voice droned on, but the words blurred together. “Farm… house… bank accounts… watch collection…” Then came the stipulation: “To my children, Jen and Henry, on the condition that both remain married for the next five years. Any divorce during this period will forfeit one party’s share, leaving the full estate to the other.”
I glanced at Henry, who leaned back in his chair, exuding self-satisfaction. Beside him, Sarah, his wife, appeared unfazed, as if they could win this game without breaking a sweat. Then I turned to Ted, my husband. He sat rigidly, his gaze distant, his jaw clenched. If guilt had a face, it would be his.
The affair I had discovered months ago loomed over us like a ticking time bomb, one I had been trying to defuse—until that moment.
As we left the office, Henry sidled up to me. “Well, sis,” he drawled, “looks like Dad wanted us to play nice. Not that I mind. Sarah and I are solid. But you…” He trailed off, his smirk widening. Henry knew more than he let on. He had hinted at Ted’s affair months ago, casually mentioning he’d seen him at a hotel with his secretary.
“Think you can keep it together?” he taunted. I fought back the sting of his words. “Don’t you have somewhere else to gloat, Henry?”
The next two weeks felt like walking a tightrope. Evenings with Ted devolved into cold, unspoken standoffs. We exchanged only the bare minimum of words. The silence was suffocating. Every glance he avoided confirmed what I already knew: love no longer held us together; it was my father’s will.
Most nights, I found myself staring out the window at the farm, which held every memory of my father. The thought of Henry inheriting it made me grip my coffee mug so tightly one morning that it cracked.
Meanwhile, Henry acted as if he had no worries. He called me three times in one week, his tone unnervingly cheerful. Then, out of the blue, he invited us to dinner.
At Henry’s house, the atmosphere was tense. During the main course, he launched into a story about a work trip to Paris. Sarah, barely holding it together, suddenly slammed her fork onto her plate. “Enough! I know this trip isn’t about work. We’re done!” She stormed out, leaving Henry to sigh dramatically.
Later that night, he showed up on my porch, a folder in hand. “Well, Jen,” he said, “you win. My marriage is over, but yours is still standing.”
Guilt gnawed at me. My own failing marriage was a secret I hadn’t confessed, and pity compelled me to let him stay in the guest house.
Weeks passed, and Henry moved in as if he owned the place. I should have been furious, but I couldn’t throw him out. One morning, after yet another night of Ted not coming home, I confronted him. “I’m filing for divorce. I know about the affair.”
The divorce was finalized too quickly. I left Ted the house and everything in it, moving to the farm, my supposed refuge. But as I stepped onto the porch, my heart sank. Henry stood there, champagne glass in hand, surrounded by laughing friends.
“You thought I divorced Sarah for real?” he mocked. “We figured we’d help you along… give you a little push.”
In that moment, I realized I had truly lost everything.