Life kept going. My business expanded. My workshops became something bigger — a community for women rebuilding their lives. I loved that work. It felt real.
Then my cousin called and told me something I should’ve known sooner: Rick had borrowed money from others — my aunt, my uncle, his own parents — always with the same pattern. None of it ever repaid. This wasn’t misfortune. This was a habit.
I tried to move on. Honestly, I did.
Then Lisa called.
Her voice was thin, cracking. She asked to meet. Against all logic, I agreed.
She looked older at the coffee shop — drained, worn down, nothing like the smiling woman in those vacation photos. She got straight to the point.
“I’m divorcing him,” she said. “He’s been hiding money. We could’ve paid you back years ago. I didn’t know.”
She cried — soft, tired tears that only come after years of pretending everything is fine. She admitted she’d been blinded, manipulated, and too proud to question anything while clinging to their perfect façade.
“When I get my share in the divorce,” she said, “you’ll be the first person I repay.”
Three months later, a check arrived. Twenty-five thousand plus interest. No dramatic letter. Just a small note: Thank you for letting me make this right.
