If I had shoveled the snow in the evening, as Vernon had ordered, the tracks would not have been visible. I would never have known that someone came. In the morning, new snow would have fallen, and everything would have been covered in a pristine white blanket of lies. I would have lived on, not suspecting that the house was being sold out from under me.
And in two days, Vernon would have come home—or maybe called—to say the house was sold. Or maybe he would have said nothing at all and simply disappeared with the money, leaving me with nothing but questions.
What could I have done then? Proving fraud would have been almost impossible if the deal had already gone through and the money had vanished.
At home, I took off my coat and went straight to the kitchen. I sat by the window in the dark, looking at the yard where the tracks were now slightly covered by new snow, fading like a bad memory. I should have eaten something, but the thought of food made my stomach turn. I felt sick—sick from the thoughts, from the betrayal, from how easily Vernon had decided to deceive me.
Thirty-two years.
I had cooked for him. When he was sick, I was there. I thought his distance was just his character, that the road had worn him out. But he was simply waiting. Waiting for the moment to get rid of me, sell the house, take the money, and start a new life.
Maybe he had had someone for a long time. Another woman—young, beautiful. Maybe he dreamed of running away to her, and his wife was just an obstacle to be removed.
Tears finally rolled down my cheeks. I didn’t hold them back. I sat there in the dark kitchen and cried—not for my husband, but for myself. For the lost years. For the fact that my life had been spent with a man who turned out to be a stranger. For the fact that at fifty-eight, I was left alone, with a broken heart and a legacy of betrayal.
The phone rang, shattering the silence.
Vernon.
The name lit up on the screen, mocking me.
I looked at the call for a long time, watching the phone vibrate against the table. Then, with a trembling finger, I declined it.
A minute later, a text came through.
How are things? Got here fine. Talk tomorrow.
Dry. Short. As always.
I didn’t answer.
The night passed without sleep. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, sorting through everything that had been between us, searching for the moment when the foundation had cracked. Or had it been broken from the start? Maybe he never loved me. Maybe he married for convenience—needed a house, a mistress to keep it clean. And now, he decided that was enough. Time to cash out.
In the morning, I got up, feeling shattered. My eyes were swollen, my face puffy. I looked in the mirror and saw a stranger. Gray strands in my hair. Wrinkles. Fatigue etched into every line.
Old. Ugly.
The thought whispered in my ear. Maybe that’s why he decided to get rid of me.
“No,” I said aloud, my voice raspy. “Enough.”
I straightened up, looking my reflection in the eye. Enough pitying myself. Enough making excuses for him. He isn’t a bored husband; he is a criminal. He wanted to rob me. He wanted to leave me on the street without a roof over my head.
And I will not let him do that.
I got dressed, went down to the kitchen, and made breakfast. I forced myself to eat every bite. Then I took out the phone and called the lawyer Vernon had once hired for some paperwork years ago.
I explained the situation clearly, without tears.
“Come in tomorrow,” the lawyer said, his voice grim. “We will draw everything up. And you are doing the right thing, Alara. Doing it immediately. Things like this cannot be forgiven.”
I hung up. Divorce.
It was a strange word. I never thought I would say it. It always seemed that Vernon and I would be together to the end, like his parents, like mine. But it turned out, we were only together until the moment he got bored.
Two days later, the phone rang. It was Gareth Purnell.
“Mrs. Vance, your husband returned,” he said, skipping the pleasantries. “We detained him this morning when he arrived at the depot. Interrogation is underway.”
My heart skipped a beat, then steadied. “Do you want to be present?” he asked.
“No,” I answered firmly. “I do not want to see him.”
“Understood,” Purnell said. “Then I will tell you the main thing. He confessed to everything.”
I gripped the phone tighter. “Why?”
“He says he got into debt,” Purnell explained. “Slot machines. He lost a large sum over the last few years. Creditors were threatening him. He decided to sell the house to pay them off. He thought you wouldn’t find out until it was too late, and by then he’d have the cash.”
“And what now?”
“The case is going to court. Taking into account the confession and the fact that the deal didn’t go through, he will likely get probation or a short real term, plus an obligation to pay you compensation for moral damages.”
“Okay,” I said, feeling a strange numbness. “Thank you.”
I hung up.
Slot machines. Debts.
So it wasn’t about another woman. It wasn’t about me getting old or ugly. It was just money. Just gambling and stupidity.
For some reason, that didn’t make it easier. In fact, it made it worse. Maybe another woman would have been better—at least that would be a human explanation, something rooted in passion or emotion. But this? He had sold our life, our thirty-two years, to feed a machine.
Spring came unexpectedly early that year.
At the end of March, the snow melted in a few days, exposing the blackened earth and the first green shoots of grass. I stood by the kitchen window with a cup of coffee in my hands and looked at the yard where, once on a cold December night, a stranger’s footprints had remained. Footprints that changed my whole life.