I’m Mira, 36, living near Portland with my husband Paul and our four-year-old twin girls. Our life looked perfect — cozy home, Sunday markets, Friday movie nights. Paul was a devoted dad and thoughtful husband, or so I believed.
Everything changed after my grandmother died. At her funeral, Paul seemed supportive, but later at her house he pressured me to sell it for money. Confused and hurt, I stayed behind alone. A neighbor gave me a key and a warning that something was wrong. In my grandmother’s attic I found a letter and documents she’d left for me. She wrote that Paul had been manipulating her before she died, trying to push her to sell her home for cash. She regretted it and named me sole heir.
Shocked, I secured the documents and confronted Paul. He admitted he lost much of our savings in a risky crypto investment and lied to cover it up, even manipulating my grandmother. After a long argument and his empty promises, I decided I couldn’t trust him. I filed for divorce.
Paul moved out. I kept the house, changed the locks, and honored my grandmother’s memory. What saved me was the truth — and her love.