“The transaction you’re attempting cannot close. The buyer will have to recover any money handed over, and you will have to explain why you offered for sale a property that already had other owners.”
Mark dropped into a chair.
“I didn’t know…”
“You knew it was never in your name,” I answered.
Theresa pointed at me.
“You let him do it!”
“I never asked him to forge authority or negotiate something that wasn’t his.”
“He’s your husband! You should have warned him!”
I looked at my daughter.
“A wife has no obligation to stop her husband from committing the exact betrayal he’s been planning against her for months.”
Nobody spoke.
Hours later we went back to the old house, because I still had the right to collect my belongings during the window agreed upon with the new owners.
Theresa was already there.
On the table was a document they had written themselves.
“Sign it,” she ordered.
“What is it?”
“A statement that you agree to the sale Mark made.”
I almost smiled.
“No.”
Mark set an envelope next to the paper.
Inside was the two hundred dollars.
“Then take this and go.”
“Where?”
“Find a room.”
Theresa added:
“You should be grateful my son is giving you anything.”
That was when I laughed.
And said that sentence:
“Because the house you just sold had already been…”
I stopped.
“Finish it!” Mark shouted.
Before I could answer, there was a knock at the door.
Elaine opened it.
Behind her stood the attorney for the real buyers.
He was carrying a thick folder.
He put it down in front of Mark.
“Sir, before we talk about the nine hundred thousand dollars, we need to clear up something much more serious.”
Mark opened the folder.
He read the first page.
And the blood seemed to drain from his face.
There was still the matter of why he had so desperately needed to sell my house… and when he finally confessed, I understood that our betrayal had begun much earlier than I imagined.
PART 3
“What does this mean?” Mark asked, his voice cracking.
The attorney, Stephen Roberts, took a seat across from him.
“It means that when you signed the preliminary purchase agreement with the second buyer, the property had been recorded in my clients’ names for fourteen days.”
Mark turned to Elaine.
“But I live here.”
“Living in a property doesn’t make you its owner,” she replied.
Theresa slapped the table with her palm.
“He’s Danielle’s husband!”
Stephen looked at her patiently.
“That doesn’t make him the owner either.”
The silence was brutal.
I held Reagan, watching the man I’d shared seven years of my life with.
Mark had imagined a different scene.
He’d pictured me crying.
Begging.
Asking where I was supposed to sleep with our daughter.
He’d thought those two hundred dollars would be the last word.
Instead, he was the one sitting in front of documents that could bring serious consequences.
“What’s going to happen?” he asked.
Stephen closed the folder.
“That depends on what you stated, what documents you submitted, and how much money you received or committed. The buyer you offered the property to has already been informed that the transaction is impossible.”
Mark lowered his head.
“I thought I could do it.”
I couldn’t hold back.
“No. You thought nobody would stop you.”
Theresa shot me a look full of rage.
“Does it make you happy to see him like this?”
“No.”
“Well, it looks like it does.”
“What would have made me happy is having my husband with me while our daughter was being born, instead of secretly trying to sell the house I inherited from my father.”
That silenced her.
Stephen and Elaine left after explaining the next steps. The new owners had been told about the situation and gave us a few days to finish moving out our things.
When the door closed, Mark stood motionless.
I started slowly up the stairs.
“Danielle.”
I stopped.
“What?”
“We need to talk.”
“We’ve needed to talk for months. You chose to go through drawers and sign papers.”
I went up.
I had no strength left to argue.
That night I slept in the guest room with Reagan beside me.
At three in the morning, while I was feeding her, I realized something.
I wasn’t afraid of losing my marriage anymore.
I was sad.
And those aren’t the same thing.
The next morning Mark knocked on the door.
“Can I come in?”
“Yes.”
He sat on the edge of a chair.
He didn’t look like the same man who’d told me the day before to find a cheap room.
“I have to tell you why I did this.”
“I already know why. You wanted money.”
“You don’t know everything.”
I waited.
He ran both hands over his face.
“I have debts.”
“How much?”
He didn’t answer.
“Mark, how much?”
Finally he said the number.
“Almost four hundred thousand dollars.”
I froze.
“Four hundred thousand?”
He nodded.
“How?”
It had started with small loans for a business that never worked. Then personal loans to cover the first ones. Later he’d put money into some supposed opportunity with two acquaintances.
He lost the money.
He tried to win it back with increasingly risky investments.
And when everything began to collapse, he hid the creditors’ calls.
“Since when?”
“More than a year.”
I felt nauseous.
For a year I’d been preparing for our daughter’s arrival while he hid a parallel financial life.
“Did your mother know?”
Mark looked toward the hallway.
He didn’t need to answer.
Theresa appeared minutes later.
“I knew part of it,” she admitted.
“Part of it?”
“I knew he owed money.”
“And your solution was my house?”
Theresa crossed her arms, but she no longer had yesterday’s confidence.
“I thought everything between you two should be shared.”
“Funny. You never shared his debts with me.”
She didn’t respond.
Mark tried to explain:
“Mom thought that if we sold the house…”
“Don’t use that word again.”
“Which one?”
“‘We.’ You weren’t selling anything that was yours.”
He looked down.
“You’re right.”
“I don’t want you to agree with me because you’re scared. I want you to understand what you did.”
I took a deep breath.