When my father’s lawyer read out his will, my heart sank. He left us the farm, bank accounts and valuable assets — but only if both my brother and I stayed married for five years. If either of us divorced before then, the other would inherit everything alone.
My brother Henry smirked with confidence; his wife Sarah sat calmly beside him. They looked unshakeable. Beside me, my husband Ted sat rigid, his jaw tight. I’d discovered his affair months earlier, and though I’d planned to confront it, I stayed silent until that moment.
Henry couldn’t help but taunt me as we left the lawyer’s office. “Good luck keeping it together,” he said with a smug grin. I didn’t reply. Inside, dread twisted with shame — my marriage had been hanging by a thread long before our father’s condition.
The next two weeks felt like walking a tightrope. Ted and I barely spoke. Nights were silent, interrupted only by the hum of daily routines. “Dinner’s on the stove,” I’d say. “Thanks,” he’d reply from his phone. It became painfully clear that love wasn’t what held us together — the will’s clause was.
Meanwhile, Henry flaunted his carefree life. He called playfully, as if nothing serious was happening. Then he invited us to dinner at his home, where Sarah hosted with forced smiles. Henry began talking about his grand plans — Paris, new opportunities. But Sarah snapped, finally refusing to be ignored. She stormed out, ending their marriage in a dramatic moment that everyone felt in the silence that followed.
Later that night, Henry showed up on my porch with a dry chuckle. “You win,” he said. His marriage was over, but mine still stood — yet there was no victory in it. I’d started to feel pity for him and let him stay in the guest house. He acted at ease — making toast and coffee like nothing had happened.
Ted and I eventually confronted the inevitable. One morning, after another night apart, I told him calmly: “I’m filing for divorce. And don’t pretend — I know about the affair.” He nodded, not arguing. “You deserve better than this,” he said, and the marriage ended quietly that day.
I left Ted the house, the furniture, even the memories hanging in photos. It was easier to walk away than to cling to what had already crumbled. I packed my bag and returned to the farm, hoping for a fresh start — only to find Henry on the porch, champagne in hand, surrounded by friends. He revealed their cruel plan: he and Sarah had noticed Ted’s betrayal long ago and quietly helped it along so I’d fail.
Shock and anger surged through me. I’d been used. But the worst of that moment passed by dawn. Henry disappeared, leaving behind silence and an empty house. Alone, I wandered the rooms and remembered my father’s voice. In the library, I found an old book with a hidden envelope — a letter from him.
In it, he wrote that inheritance was more than property — it was the life you built around you. He told me that the farm belonged to the one brave enough to choose truth over illusion. And then the lawyer confirmed the final clause: the farm was mine.
Weeks passed. Though anger still churned, my father’s words guided me. When Henry returned, humbled and destitute, I opened the door. “You can stay,” I told him, “but you’re working for it every day.” And over time, as he worked alongside me and found someone genuine to love, our relationship slowly healed.
As we watched the sunset together one evening, Henry said, “You were always the better one, Jen.” And I finally understood — my father had wanted us both to grow into the people we could be, not just to win anything on paper.
