When we first married five years earlier, Preston was charming and full of plans that sounded exciting instead of reckless. He used to make me coffee before work and tell me, “One day I will make you proud, just wait and see.”
Over time, those promises turned into lectures about patience and risk, while I covered utilities, groceries, and the capital for his next idea. If I ever suggested he get a stable job, he would snap, “You do not understand how big success works, Eliza, you think too small.”
I stopped arguing and simply worked harder, telling myself that marriage meant endurance. I wore the same worn boots through Chicago winters and skipped salon visits so he could buy equipment for projects that failed within months.
Then one Tuesday evening in May, he received a phone call that changed everything. He hung up, stared at the wall for a second, and said with a strange smile, “My grandfather Theodore passed away, and I am in his will.”
I stepped closer and said softly, “I am sorry for your loss,” but he brushed that aside and replied, “You do not get it, he owned property in Indianapolis and had investments, this could be millions.”