After my husband and I bought a cabin, we took the regional shuttle there every weekend. But that day, long before our stop, an older woman leaned toward me and whispered, “You need to get off now. If you stay on this bus, you’re going to die.”
I didn’t argue. I just grabbed my bag and jumped off. When I turned back, I froze in horror.
Susan stood at the kitchen window, staring at the gray October sky and stirring her cold tea without thinking. From the other room, she could hear Mark packing a bag, the closet door thudding shut, the sound of him muttering to himself. Those noises used to be the familiar soundtrack of their home, but lately they’d begun to feel unsettling, as if a stranger had moved into their small apartment.
Three months ago, they’d bought the cabin. A small, rustic A-frame about an hour from the city, with a six-acre lot, old apple trees, and a leaning fence. It wasn’t much, but for Susan, it meant more than just a piece of property. The money for it had come from the sale of her mother’s condo—the same small place on the edge of town where she’d grown up, a home that always smelled of baking and the lilac bush outside the window.
Her mom had passed away two years ago, quietly in her sleep, and for the longest time, Susan couldn’t bring herself to sell the condo. Every time she went over to check on the place, her heart ached with loss. This was the window where her mom used to sit and knit. This was the stool where Susan did her homework while her mom cooked dinner. They had put up the faded floral wallpaper together, laughing as they got covered in paste. It felt like selling the condo meant selling the last tangible pieces of her mother.
But Mark had insisted. He said the money shouldn’t just sit there, that the condo was empty, and the property taxes and HOA fees were eating into their budget. He brought it up every night, and Susan could see the irritation growing in his eyes.
“It’s just four walls, Sue,” he’d say, his impatience barely concealed. “Your mom would have wanted you to be happy. To have a place to escape to, get some fresh air. Not this old box on the outskirts of town.”
Eventually, Susan gave in. She signed the papers, took the check, and the condo went to a young family with a small child. She was glad to know there would be laughter in those rooms again, but she still cried into her pillow that night so her husband wouldn’t hear.
They looked for a cabin together. They saw a dozen places, from large plots with modern houses to tiny lots with little more than a shed. Susan fell in love with this one immediately—it was small but solid, with charming trim on the windows and an old apple tree by the porch, just like the one in her mom’s yard. That sealed the deal.
When it came time to sign the closing documents, Susan stated firmly that the deed would be in her name alone. It was her mother’s money, her mother’s memory, and this was one way she could hold onto that connection. The lawyer, an older woman with thick glasses, looked at them over her paperwork and asked if she had heard correctly.
“Yes, just my name,” Susan confirmed, trying not to look at her husband.
Mark didn’t say a word. But a muscle tightened in his jaw, and for the first time, Susan saw something like real anger in his eyes. A cold, hard anger that he quickly masked with a tight smile. He was silent the entire drive home, and when Susan tried to explain her decision, he just waved her off.
“Do what you want. It’s your money.”
From that day on, something shifted. Mark became irritable, nitpicking about everything. The soup was too salty, his shirt wasn’t ironed right, the apartment was a mess. He’d never cared about things like that before, but now he seemed to be looking for reasons to start a fight. And whenever Susan mentioned the cabin, his face would turn to stone. He’d go quiet, turn away, and find something urgent to do in another room. Once, she suggested they plant some rose bushes like her mom used to have, and Mark suddenly snapped.
“Enough about your mother! She’s gone, Susan. You have to accept that. You keep clinging to the past like it’s going to change anything.”
Susan fell silent, a lump forming in her throat. She knew he was being cruel and unfair, but she didn’t have the strength to argue. She just went to the kitchen and stood there, staring out the window until the tears dried on their own.
One Sunday morning, she accidentally overheard him on the phone with a friend. Susan had woken up early and was heading to the kitchen to make coffee. The bedroom door was slightly ajar, and she could hear Mark’s voice clearly, though he was trying to keep it low.
“Can you believe it? Put the whole thing in her name. Just hers. So where does that leave me? Twenty years we’ve been married, and she doesn’t trust me. Like I’m some kind of con artist instead of her husband…”
He paused, listening to the person on the other end.
“What difference does it make whose money it was? Aren’t we a family? Everything is supposed to be ours. But she…”
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