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.”

“Then why are you staring at it?”

“Because someday I’m going to be able to afford it.”

“Someday?”

He smiled.

“Someday, Nora. You’ll see.”

Three months later, we got married.

We had no beautiful wedding.

No expensive rings.

No fancy honeymoon.

But Tom held my hand and promised me something that mattered more.

“We’re going to build our own family,” he said.

And for the first time in my life, I believed someone when they promised I wouldn’t be abandoned.

Our life wasn’t glamorous.

I worked as a store clerk.

Tom became a mechanic.

We lived in a small apartment where the kitchen was so tiny that two people couldn’t stand in it comfortably.

But there was food in the refrigerator.

There was a warm bed.

There were two toothbrushes beside the sink.

And every night, Tom came home.

Then Emily was born.

The first time I held her, I cried.

Tom stood beside the hospital bed, staring at our daughter as though someone had handed him the most valuable thing on earth.

“She has your eyes,” he whispered.

“No, she has yours.”

“She definitely has yours.”

“You’re already lying to her.”

He laughed.

That night, while Emily slept between us in the hospital bassinet, I looked at Tom.