When my husband Alex and I bought our home, I thought we were building a
life together. Years of raising kids, budgeting every penny, and holding
down the fort while he climbed the corporate ladder—I gave everything,
Then, during one of his mother Diane’s many snide dinners, she dropped the bomb:
“This house is in my name. Alex put it there—because you don’t contribute enough.
”I was stunned. Betrayed. My “partner” had secretly handed over our
home to his mother, all under the excuse of “protection.” From me.
I didn’t yell or fight. I planned.Fast-forward ten years: Alex proudly
made the final house payment. Two weeks later, karma called—literally.
Diane told him she’d transferred the house to his sister. “It’s in my name,
remember?” she said. Alex panicked. “What are we going to do?”I smiled.
“We aren’t doing anything. The kids and I already have a place.”I’d saved.
Prepared. And when he lost the house he never let be mine—I walked away.
He moved in with Diane.I moved on.Karma doesn’t forget. And I don’t regret a thing.
