When I finally realized my dream and bought a house for my husband and me, that very same day, he declared..

We later learned he’d fled the country, starting a new life with no intent to repay debts. As a guarantor, I had to pay off his loan, which wrecked my credit history. For three years, I paid the bank for money I never borrowed, covering my irresponsible brother’s debts.

It was a tough period. James and I argued more than usual, money was tight even for necessities, let alone saving for a house. I felt foolish for trusting Michael, who’d always been unreliable, and paid for my naivety.

Emma supported me through it. She didn’t scold me for being reckless or say, “I told you so,” though she’d warned against lending Michael money. She was just there, helping navigate the legal mess, offering a shoulder when things got heavy.

“It’s okay,” she’d say. “We’ll start over. Once you clear Michael’s debt, we’ll save for the house again. Dreams don’t die if you truly believe in them.”

Things shifted three years ago with an unexpected event. My distant aunt, Margaret, whom I’d met maybe twice, passed away, leaving me a substantial inheritance. A childless widow, she had only a few distant relatives like me scattered across the country.

Why she chose me, I don’t know. Maybe she remembered how I helped with her pension paperwork. Or she thought I needed the money most.

The sum was significant—eighty thousand dollars. For someone used to pinching pennies, it was a fortune. Suddenly, the dream of a house felt within reach.

I debated telling James the full amount. On one hand, spouses shouldn’t keep secrets. On the other, I knew he’d want to funnel some into his creative projects, which rarely paid off.

In the end, I told a half-truth. I said I’d inherited thirty thousand dollars and suggested using it as a down payment for a house. James agreed, though less enthusiastically than I’d hoped.

He dreamed of a studio for his design work and hoped some of the inheritance would fund it. But I insisted a house was the priority. After all, a house could include a studio—there’d be space for everything.

We started house hunting. We must’ve toured dozens—old and new, in the city and suburbs, big and small. Nothing matched my vision of the perfect home.

The layout was wrong, the neighborhood sketchy, or the price too steep, even with the inheritance. That’s when Emma, who was helping with the search, suggested taking out a mortgage in her name. “Your credit history’s shot because of Michael,” she said.

“The bank will either deny you or charge sky-high interest. I have a perfect credit score and a steady income. I can get a mortgage on great terms.”

“But then what?” I hesitated. “The house will be in your name? What if something happens? What if we fight?” Emma looked at me reproachfully. “You really think I’d steal your house? After everything we’ve been through?”

“No, of course not,” I said, embarrassed. “It’s just a lot of money, a big responsibility.” “We’ll draw up a contract,” Emma said confidently.

“We’ll legally secure your rights to the house. Once we pay off most of the mortgage or your credit improves, we’ll transfer ownership to you. I’m a lawyer, Sarah, I know how to do this right.”

So we did. Emma took out the mortgage in her name, I put down the inheritance money, and we signed a contract stating I’d make the mortgage payments, and she’d transfer the house to me after a certain amount was paid. I decided not to tell James about this legal detail yet.

Knowing his paranoia and rocky relationship with Emma, I feared it’d spark a fight. Besides, it was temporary—the house was bought for us, with my money, and I was paying the mortgage. What did it matter whose name was on the deed? The search continued for months until I saw a listing for a historic mansion in a quiet, leafy neighborhood near downtown.

The house was pricier than planned, but something in the description made me call the realtor and schedule a viewing. Seeing it, I fell in love instantly. The stained-glass bay window, spacious rooms with high ceilings, antique parquet, apple orchard—it was everything I’d dreamed of.

The house needed repairs, but its sturdy build gave confidence it’d stand for centuries. I called Emma and James to see it too. Emma arrived within the hour, armed with a tape measure and a list of questions for the realtor.

She meticulously inspected the foundation, walls, roof, plumbing, and wiring, walking the property’s perimeter. “It’s solid,” she concluded. “Needs cosmetic work, but no major issues.

The price is high, but we can negotiate.” James couldn’t come—swamped with an urgent project. He promised to see it the next day, but other tasks and projects kept him away.

“I trust your taste,” he said when I brought up the house again. “If you love it, it’s good.” I was a bit disappointed by his indifference—this was our future home, after all.

But it also gave me freedom to decide without worrying he’d nitpick some minor flaw and reject my dream house. Emma helped negotiate the price down fifteen percent.

She was a master at haggling—polite but relentless, using arguments no one could counter. The sellers, an elderly couple moving to be near their kids, finally agreed to our offer. Paperwork took nearly three months.

We gathered countless forms, statements, and expert opinions. Emma handled the legal side, I managed the finances. On the day we signed the purchase agreement, I couldn’t contain my nerves—my hands shook as I signed, and a lump kept rising in my throat.

And now, three months later, the house was finally ours. I planned to surprise James—drive him here blindfolded and hand him the keys. I pictured his joy, amazement, awe.

I dreamed of us furnishing our new home together, picking furniture, choosing bedroom wall colors, deciding on living room curtains. But in recent weeks, James’s behavior had changed. He grew irritable, jittery, often stayed late at work, and came home to shut himself in his room, citing exhaustion.

We barely talked—only about mundane things, and even then, in clipped phrases. When I tried to discuss the house or moving, he brushed me off: “Later, Sarah, I’m not in the mood.” I chalked it up to stress.

He had a lot on his plate—a big order from a new client that could open doors. Plus, moving is always stressful, with endless tasks and unexpected costs. It made sense he was on edge.

But something else nagged at me. A few times, I overheard him talking to his mother on the phone. Usually, these calls happened when he thought I was asleep or out.

He spoke softly, but I caught snippets: “Yeah, Mom, it’s all going to plan.” “No, she doesn’t suspect a thing…