Chapter 1

My husband spent his life savings buying a luxury condo with a private elevator for his first love.

When I found out, I went home, furious, to confront him.

But my son took his side.

"Mom, Vivian is retired and all alone. What's wrong with Dad using his pension to buy her a place? Don't be so petty."

My daughter-in-law chimed in. "Exactly. Vivian has a heart condition and can't stress herself out.

You, on the other hand, have been running a bakery for thirty years. “

“You’re as strong as an ox. You should just stay home and serve Dad."

Arthur stood there, completely unbothered and self-righteous.

"It’s my money. I’ll spend it on whoever I want. You’re just a bitter, wrinkly old woman. It’s none of your business."

I looked down at my hands. My knuckles were swollen and deformed from decades of kneading dough. A heavy, suffocating pain pressed down on my chest.

Thirty years ago, if I hadn't taken the layoff for him, the one with the secure union pension would have been me!

I took a deep breath, turned around, walked into the bedroom, and locked the door.

I pulled a rusty tin box from under the bed. Inside was a thick stack of vintage tech stock certificates issued in 1992.

I had gone to the brokerage firm this morning to check on them. These stocks were now worth twelve million dollars.

Arthur, keep your pocket-change pension. Go enjoy your Parkinson’s-stricken first love.

This queen is cashing out.

I packed the stack of stock certificates neatly into my canvas tote bag.

I had planned to tell them about this wealth.

But thinking about how my son and daughter-in-law treated me like free labor to babysit their kid, and how Arthur spent every free second running to Vivian's place...

I didn’t want to say a single word.

From outside the bedroom, Chloe’s shrill voice pierced through the door.

"Helen! What are you doing hiding in there? Tommy gets out of preschool at five-thirty. If you’re late again, the teacher is going to call my boss!"

Arthur banged on the door, his voice dripping with impatience.

"You’re embarrassing this family! How old are you, throwing a jealous tantrum? Vivian and I are strictly platonic. You know nothing!"

"Get out here and wash the vegetables in the kitchen. Leo is coming home for dinner soon!"

I threw the door open and coldly swept my gaze over the three people in the living room.

Leo was still glued to his phone, frantically tapping away at a mobile game. Chloe was lying on the sofa with a hydrating face mask on.

Arthur stood with his hands behind his back, looking like the king of the castle.

Seeing that my hands were empty and I wasn't wearing my grease-stained apron, Arthur frowned.

"What’s with that face? I spent my own pension. You have no right to throw a tantrum."

I didn’t reply. I walked right past him to the entryway and put on my only pair of clean leather shoes.

"Picking up your son and making dinner is your own problem now," I said.

"You always complain that I smell like grease. Since Vivian is so clean and elegant, go have her cook for you."

Arthur froze, then exploded in rage.

"Helen! Don't you dare act ungrateful! You’re an old woman without a single dime of retirement. You eat my food, you live under my roof. “

“How dare you complain about doing a little housework?"

Leo finally looked up from his game, his face twisted in annoyance.

"Mom, can you stop making a scene? Vivian is fragile. She can’t even lift a heavy grocery bag. Why do you have to compete with a sick woman? Are you going through menopause again?"

Chloe ripped off her face mask and rolled her eyes.

"Seriously. My mom got sick after giving birth to me, and she refuses to stay with us in the city because she doesn’t want to be a burden. “

“But look at you. You live in this big house every day, and you're still not satisfied."

A chill ran down my spine.

Thirty years ago, when the factory downsizing happened, only one person per household could keep their union job.

Arthur had literally knelt in front of me. He cried, saying his knees were bad, he couldn't do hard labor, and that Vivian was already married to someone else—this job was all he had left in life.

I believed him back then.

For years, Arthur handed his paycheck over to me on time.

It wasn't much, but it was enough to feed and clothe the family.

But the moment Vivian's husband passed away, Arthur changed the joint account to his sole name.

He told me, "I need to keep my pension in my own account to feel secure."

When I asked him how we would pay for household expenses, he sneered, "Don't you make money selling bread? Our family doesn't need my little pension anyway."

This morning, when I got the copy of the condo deed from the real estate agency, my hands couldn't stop shaking.

It wasn't because of the $800,000 price tag. It was because of the clause in the addendum:

Donor: Arthur Miller. Funded entirely by donor.

He made sure the deed for another woman's condo was crystal clear.

Yet, after thirty-seven years of marriage, I had never even seen his bank card.

I pushed the front door open and walked out without looking back.

Behind me, Arthur’s booming voice echoed down the hallway.

"Go! Get lost! Don’t you dare come back! Let's see you sleep on the streets tonight!"