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After years of marriage, I knew one thing for certain: Mike cared more about appearances than people. Designer clothes, flashy cars, the biggest house on the block—everything was about winning. So when he asked for a divorce, I already knew how it would end.
At the lawyer’s office, I played my role perfectly. Slumped shoulders. Blank stare. I agreed to give him everything—the house, the car, the savings. My lawyer looked shocked. Mike looked triumphant. As soon as I stepped into the elevator alone, I laughed. He thought he’d won.
What Mike didn’t remember—or never bothered to read—was the agreement he signed years ago when my mother helped with the down payment. It gave her the legal right to live in that house whenever she wanted, for as long as she wanted.
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