Part 2The Key to Betrayal: Selling the House My Mother Left Me

I've been married to Arthur for fifteen years.

How should I put it?

It wasn't good, but it wasn't bad either.

In the first few years of our marriage, he didn't talk much, but he was reliable. Every day he went to the building materials market to restock, deliver goods, and collect payments. I worked as a quality inspector at an electronics factory. We pooled our salaries to pay the mortgage, raise our child, and get by.

It wasn't romantic, but it felt stable.

He wasn't romantic.

In fifteen years of marriage, he never bought me a single birthday present. One year, for my birthday, I bought a cake myself, sliced it, and brought it to the table. He took one look and asked, "What's the occasion today?"

I said, "It's my birthday."

He just said, "Oh."

"Let's eat."

I ate that cake for three days.

He didn't touch a single bite.

During the two years my mom was sick, I worked during the day and went to the hospital at night. The hospital was on the east side of the city; we lived on the west side. I had to take two different buses, an hour and a half each way.

Arthur never once went with me.

I asked him once, "Can you drive me to the hospital tomorrow? Mom is getting chemo, and I can't carry everything by myself."

He said, "I can't get away from the warehouse. Just take an Uber."

I took an Uber. It cost fifty-eight dollars.

I remember it very clearly: fifty-eight dollars. Because that day, I only had exactly sixty dollars in cash in my pocket. I took the two dollars in change and stuffed it into the pocket of my mom's hospital gown.

Later, Mom passed away.

I handled the funeral arrangements entirely by myself.

Arthur showed up for half a day and took three phone calls, all from the warehouse.

The next day, he said he had to go back because a shipment of building materials needed to be inspected.

I said okay.

I handled all the paperwork for the eminent domain buyout.

I ran around for over four months. The city planning office, the relocation department, the housing authority, the notary public. Arthur never went with me once.

Once, I asked him to drop off a document at the housing authority for me. He said over the phone, "Just go yourself, I don't understand any of that stuff."

The day the deed was finally issued, I sat alone on the steps outside the housing authority, clutching that document.

I wanted to call my mom.

I scrolled through my phone to her number.

The number was still there. But she was gone.

I put my phone away, stood up, and dusted off my pants.

I went to the grocery store and bought food.

I made four dishes for dinner.

Arthur came home, took a look, and asked, "Why did you make so much today?"

"The deed came through."

"Oh, that's good."

He didn't ask another question.

He didn't ask how big the apartment was, when it would be ready to move in, or how long I had spent dealing with the paperwork.

Later, he said we shouldn't move in right away, but rent it out to collect some income. I thought that made sense; we already had a place to live, and renting it out would help with our finances.

He said he would find the tenant.

I said okay.

Every month, he would transfer a thousand dollars to me, saying it was the rent.

A thousand dollars.

I didn't think much of it at the time.

Thinking about it now, an apartment in that complex should rent for at least two thousand five hundred.

Where did he spend the missing fifteen hundred?

No, that's not right.

There was never a tenant.

From the very beginning, there wasn't one.

I sat in the car until 10 PM.

It was very cold outside the car window.

The February wind seeped through the cracks.

I shoved my hands into my pockets and felt that set of keys.

The ones my mom gave me.

She said, "Chloe, this house is for you. It's Mom giving you a safety net."

My safety net had been hollowed out by him.