Now he pushed a folder toward me.
On the first page was a photograph of my house.
Not our house.
Mine.
My mother had left it to me when she died three years earlier.
I’d grown up there, and the deed was in my name alone.
“Someone made an offer,” Mark said.
“For what?”
“The house. It’s worth about $1,000,000, Tanya.”
I looked at the fake prize letter still in my hand.
A million-dollar prize.
A million-dollar house.
He hadn’t brought me there to give me a fortune.
He wanted me to surrender mine.
“Absolutely not.”
“At least hear the offer.”
“You invented a contest to make me discuss selling my mother’s house?”
“I wanted you to see what’s possible.”
“Then you should have told me the truth.”
Mark lowered his voice.
“Your aunt Rose would have talked you out of listening.”
Rose was my mother’s older sister.
She’d helped me through the months after the funeral and warned me not to make decisions about the house simply because Mark wanted more money.
“So you brought me somewhere she couldn’t interrupt?”
“I brought you somewhere we could talk without everyone taking sides.”
I opened the folder.
There was a proposed sale price, a timeline, and a note about a buyer hoping to close quickly.
Mark had planned a future for property he didn’t own.
“What happens after I sell?”
“We buy a smaller place. Invest the rest.”
“Invest in what?”
He looked toward the window.
“My business needs help.”
“How much?”
He sat down.
“$400,000.”
I stared at him.
“Four hundred thousand dollars?”
“It’s debt. If I can stabilize things, the company still has a chance.”
“You told me everything was manageable.”
“I didn’t want you worrying.”
“So you invented a $1,000,000 prize?”
He winced. “That was a mistake.”
“No. Forgetting an anniversary is a mistake. This took planning.”
He said nothing.
I remembered sitting with my mother on our porch during her final summer.
“Marriage means sharing your life,” she’d told me. “It doesn’t mean surrendering every piece of yourself.”
I’d promised to care for the house.
Mark knew about that promise.
He needed my mother’s house to save his business.
And he’d decided my refusal was something to work around.
I closed the folder.
“I’m going home.”
“If we sell, we can pay everything off and still have enough to start over.”
“You mean you can start over.”
“We’re married.”
“Then why am I hearing about this now?”
He followed me outside.
“Don’t decide while you’re angry.”
“I decided long before you rented this cabin.”
The driver was waiting beside the SUV.
“Could you take me home?”
“Of course.”
Mark reached toward me, then stopped when I stepped away.
“Please don’t tell Rose before we talk.”
That request disturbed me almost as much as the drive.
He still seemed to think the worst part was someone finding out.
Rose was at my house when I returned.
I’d called her from the SUV.
She listened as I described the contest, the cabin, and the offer.
Then she asked, “Did he give you the buyer’s name?”
I opened the folder I’d taken from the cabin.
“Yes.”
“Then find out what they think they’re buying.”
The following morning, I examined every page.
The folder included a draft timeline, a number for a representative named Rebecca, and a sheet listing expected payments.
Halfway down, I found a line I’d missed.
