I gave up my life savings and aspirations to assist my stepdaughter in her recovery after a bicycle accident. To help a youngster walk again, there is no price too great, is there? I put my money in my husband’s hands. I was shocked to learn where the money actually went a year later.
I believed I had found my soul mate when I married Travis three years ago. His eyes would light up anytime his daughter Lily’s name was spoken, and he spoke of her with such passion.
I met her at Glendale Park when she was ten years old. She was a timid but endearing little girl who would always hug his leg and mutter “Daddy” in that quiet voice children use when they’re anxious around strangers.
Travis would exclaim, “She’s everything to me, Mia,” as he saw her playing on the swings. “After her mom and I split, she became my whole world.”
I appreciated that he kept his relationship with me apart from his time as a dad. He would softly shake his head when I proposed that Lily join us for supper. “This is how her mother likes things. I don’t want custody arrangements to get more complicated."
I refrained from pushing it. I aspired to be the kind stepmother who didn’t make demands. Then one phone call altered everything.
Travis continued, “Mia, something terrible happened,” in a voice that broke across the phone. Yesterday, Lily was involved in a bike accident. She suffered severe leg pain.
My heart fell. “Oh God, is she alright? Which medical facility? There, we can meet."
“She can only be seen by her parents. Although she is stable, the physicians advise that she requires a lot of physical therapy. Perhaps several months. Without significant intervention, it’s uncertain if she will ever be able to walk normally again due to her leg."
Everything in our home after that call was focused on Lily’s recuperation. After visiting her, Travis would return home with a dejected expression. He would gaze at the invoices arranged on our kitchen table while he ran his hands through his hair.
He said, “The therapy sessions cost $300 each,” in a worried tone. “Only a portion is covered by insurance. She may require them more than twice a week."
I saw his shoulders slump as he discussed Lily’s development, and I saw him strain with the arithmetic. Although he never asked me for money explicitly, his worry was like smoke in our house.
I eventually replied, “Don’t worry about the cost,” one evening as I reached across the table to give him a squeeze. Together, we’ll figure it out. This is necessary for Lily.
Tears were streaming from his eyes. “Mia, I don’t deserve you. No, I don’t. Thank you for your assistance."
I therefore began making monthly deposits into his account. $5K at first, then $7K, and then $10K as Lily’s requirements allegedly grew. My grandma left me an inheritance, which I cashed out and spent all of my funds.
Travis would say, “The specialist says she’s making progress,” at the conclusion of each session. However, she requires more thorough care. This new medicine has the potential to be very beneficial, but it is costly.
“Don’t be concerned. We’ll take care of it. I would say, “I’m there… for her.”
I gave him eighty-five thousand dollars by the end of the year. With every transfer, my ambition of starting a bakery disappeared, but I convinced myself that nothing was more important than assisting a child in regaining their ability to walk.
“How is she doing? One day, when we met briefly in the park, I remarked, “I want to talk to her.”
“It’s better! She doesn’t want people to see her struggle because she feels ashamed of her limp."
I nodded, but it didn’t make sense.
Lily seemed fine every time I saw her. She might have a small limp, but she was laughing with the other kids, running about, and climbing playground equipment. When I brought this up to Travis, he would become defensive.
Because she is courageous, she endures the suffering. Her overcompensation, according to the therapists, may worsen the situation in the long run.
He would cut me off right away if I inquired about going to the clinic.
“They have stringent rules about the presence of non-parents. In addition, Lily experiences anxiety during sessions when she is around strangers."
He would make excuses when I proposed that we all get together for supper to celebrate her advancement.
“After days of therapy, she is worn out. Perhaps next week."
However, next week never materialized.
My supervisor sent me home with a migraine much earlier on a Tuesday afternoon, which was the tipping point. I didn’t want to wake Travis if he was sleeping, so I used my key discreetly. I froze as I went by the spare room we used for our office.
Travis was counting big stacks of cash slowly while seated at the desk with his back to me. The whole surface was wrapped in bundles using rubber bands. His briefcase was filled with bundles of cash. As he rummaged through what appeared to be hundreds of dollars, his lips moved silently.
My ears were pounded by my heartbeat. We allegedly spent all of our savings on Lily’s therapy, leaving us with nothing left over. What could possibly be the source of this amount of money?
I watched him count money that shouldn’t have been there for what seemed like hours. I thought of a dozen possible reasons, but none of them made sense.
Rather than face him, I slipped back to the front door and walked in noisily. “Honey, I’m home early!” I yelled, allowing him time to conceal his actions.
When he emerged into the kitchen, the money was gone and the office door was locked.
“Hey babe, how was work?” As if nothing had happened, he kissed my forehead and asked.
Travis complained of a headache and went to bed early that evening. I chose to prepare the items for dinner the following day because I was unable to sleep. Travis had left his laptop open on the dining room table while I was in the office. With the intention of finding a recipe for the chicken meal he enjoyed, I clicked on it.
Rather, I discovered something that made me gasp.
A webpage for a child talent agency was already visible in the browser. The screen was filled with a gallery of happy children, each with a professional headshot and booking details. As I scanned through the faces, my finger shook, and then everything fell apart.
She was there. Lily. listed with a comprehensive biography and rate card under an entirely new name: “Available for brief interactions. Excellent in sequences that are emotionally charged. $200 for each reservation.
His daughter wasn’t her. She was an actor as a child.
As I clicked deeper into his files, my hands began to shake. Receipts for park meetups, café visits, and playground appearances were in a folder called “Lily Bookings”. Like a business transaction, each one was broken down by item.
Then I discovered the folder that utterly crushed me.
“Rachel – New House” included mortgage applications, furniture invoices, and several emails between Travis and an unknown woman. There was a picture attached to the most recent email. In front of a stunning two-story home, Travis and Rachel were photographed grinning while he kissed her forehead.
“Our dream home” was the subject line. I appreciate the down payment.
The chronology was very apparent. Therapy had not been covered by my $85K. Together with his mistress, it had purchased a home for them.
“You rogue!” To the empty room, I muttered.
I pretended to be the ideal wife for two weeks. During breakfast, I asked him about his day, smiled, and even proposed that we go on a weekend getaway.
In the meantime, I collected all the proof I could in secret. images from the talent agency’s screen. Printed correspondence with Rachel. My transfers are shown in the bank records. as well as pictures of them together. I created a file so thick that Travis would be buried alive.
I was at last prepared.
I remarked softly and affectionately, “Travis, I want to do something special this Friday,” during supper. “Lily’s recuperation has been extremely taxing. Let’s enjoy a pleasant evening at our house. I’ll even extend an invitation to someone to join us.
Grinning, he looked up from his noodles. “That sounds fantastic. Who do you intend to invite?
I smiled back, “Just someone I think you should meet,” he added. “It’ll be a surprise.”
I prepared his favorite dinner on Friday night. He always asked for chocolate cake on special occasions, along with roast chicken, green beans, and garlic potatoes. I lighted candles and arranged our wedding china on the table.
Evidently assuming this was some sort of romantic occasion, Travis poured wine. He smiled as the doorbell rang at precisely seven o’clock. “Is this your surprise guest?”
“Absolutely!” As I made my way to the door, I said. When I opened it, I saw a man with a set of files in a sharp suit.
He said, “Good evening, Mia,” to me.
“Meet the unexpected visitor I mentioned, Travis. He’s my attorney, Mr. Chen. He also has some documents for you.
When the lawyer entered, Travis’s smile wavered. “What’s going on, Mia? Which documents?
I motioned for Mr. Chen to take a seat across from my lying husband at our dining table.
Practicing efficiency, the lawyer passed a hefty manila folder across the table and opened his briefcase. Travis gazed at it as if it were about to blow up.
“What is this supposed to be?” Travis’s voice rose an octave as he inquired.
I calmly said, “Divorce papers,” while slicing into my chicken. “Along with financial fraud documentation, evidence of your fake therapy scam, and a lovely collection of photos featuring you and Rachel in front of your new house.”
Travis turned pale. When he opened the folder and saw all I had gathered, his palm trembled. All of it: printed emails regarding the house purchase, images of Lily’s talent profile, and bank transfer records.
“I can explain this, Mia. It is not what it appears to be.
“Really? Because it appears that you paid a child actress to pose as your injured daughter in order to defraud me of $85,000 so that you and your girlfriend could purchase a home.”
He parted his lips, then shut them again. Travis didn’t have any falsehoods prepared for the first time in three years.
He cleared his throat, Mr. Chen. “I must notify you, sir, that all jointly owned assets are currently blocked while legal proceedings are ongoing. Any effort to get in touch with my client outside of the established legal processes will be deemed harassment.
With such force, Travis pushed away from the table that his chair fell over. “Mia, you cannot do this to me. We’re wed. We can resolve this.”
“The same way you worked things out with Lily’s therapy bills?” I retorted. “Or the way you worked things out with Rachel behind my back?”
With a hint of desperation in his words, he glanced between the lawyer and me. “I’m able to repay the money. Give me some time.
“Travis, time is up. You have a year to tell me the truth. Rather, you decided to rob my future while lying every day.”
Without saying another word, Travis packed his things and departed that evening. Rachel had left him in less than a week. She apparently had no interest in a man who was no longer able to pay his mortgage.
Four months passed during the court battle, but I won everything. His car, the house he had purchased with my money, all of the money he had taken from me, and damages for psychological suffering.
When I first entered the vacant living room of what was intended to be Travis and Rachel’s ideal house, I felt at ease, something I hadn’t felt in months.
The granite worktops in the kitchen were ideal for kneading dough. Wedding cakes would look stunning in the dining room’s large windows. An office in the spare bedroom would be perfect for accepting special orders.
Travis believed he was using stolen funds to purchase a love nest. Rather, he had inadvertently acquired the ideal site for Mia’s Custom Bakery.
Last week, I displayed my company license in the front window. I wake up every day in a lie-financed house and transform it into something truthful and lovely.
I occasionally ponder whether Travis notices the large sign hanging outside as he drives by. I’m hoping he does. I hope he realizes what his deceit brought me: a fresh start based on the ashes of his treachery.
Because the cosmos has a humorous way of balancing the scales at the end. I ended up getting the last laugh, even though he believed he was the con artist. I bake bread in that kitchen, and each loaf tastes like lyrical, sweet justice.
