At 35, I married my wealthy 72-year-old boss so my daughter and I wouldn’t end up homeless. After he died, his lawyer looked at me and said, “He prepared this trap specifically for you… and he knew you would fall into it.”

“Why did he have this?”

The lawyer took a slow breath.

“That’s the question I think you need to answer.”

And suddenly, I remembered something Richard had said to me during our first week together.

Something I hadn’t understood at the time.

He had looked at me across his study and asked,

“Nora, where did you grow up?”

I had told him.

The name of the shelter.

The city.

The neighborhood.

Richard had gone completely still.

Then he had smiled.

“I see,” he said.

I had thought nothing of it.

I should have.

Because Richard had known me long before I ever knew him.

And the story of how we met really began decades earlier.

---

My entire childhood was a collection of temporary places.

I grew up in foster care.

There was never one bedroom that truly belonged to me.

Never one family photograph where I knew I would still be there the following year.

Sometimes I stayed with families who were kind.

Sometimes they weren’t.

Sometimes I was told I was staying for a few weeks.

Sometimes nobody bothered explaining why I had to leave.

I learned early not to become attached to things.

A favorite blanket could disappear.