Our new condominium on the twenty second floor of Whitaker Landing in Chicago was nearly finished when a careless mistake revealed my husband had secretly altered our future. Daniel and I had spent six hard years saving one hundred sixty five thousand dollars for this South Loop property. I had personally contributed one hundred eighteen thousand dollars from my accounting salary, late night bookkeeping jobs, and an inheritance from my late father. Just three days before our scheduled Friday closing, Daniel left his phone on our kitchen counter in our Bridgeport rental. A text message from our closing attorney illuminated the screen, requesting all three of our identifications because revised documents had been prepared to include his mother, Patricia Reed, as a joint owner. My coffee cup slipped from my numb hands and shattered across the floor. Daniel rushed in looking guilty, while Patricia hovered nearby in her robe, having clearly anticipated this confrontation. She had been visiting from Indiana and constantly hinting about her need for financial security after years of hardship. Instead of listening to his explanations, I quietly swept up the broken porcelain and prepared my own silent response.
