When the lawyer read the will, I felt like the air had thickened. The rain tapped against the window, matching the rhythm of my heart. A cold coffee cup on the lawyer’s desk made everything feel unreal.
The lawyer mentioned my father’s estate, then the condition: “Jen and Henry must stay married for five years. Divorce will forfeit one’s share.”
I glanced at Henry, confident, relaxed, while Ted, my husband, looked guilty. The affair I’d uncovered months ago loomed over us.
After the reading, Henry smugly hinted he knew about Ted’s affair. His words stung, but I didn’t respond.
The next weeks were tense. Ted and I barely spoke, and Henry’s calls, cheerful as ever, annoyed me. Then came an awkward dinner at his place, where his wife, Sarah, exploded, accusing him of escaping their marriage. Later, Henry told me his marriage was over—because of the will’s condition.
He moved into the guest house, acting like nothing had changed. My own marriage was falling apart, and Ted and I barely exchanged words. When I finally confronted him about the affair, he agreed to the divorce without a fight.
The divorce was quick, and I moved to the farm. But as I arrived, I found Henry celebrating with friends, claiming the farm was his now. He’d staged the whole affair to push me into this. He smirked, saying it was just business. I had lost everything.
The next day, he was gone, leaving me in the silence of an empty house. I found a letter from my father in a book, asking, What now, Dad?
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