I Married My Wealthy 72-Year-Old Boss So My Little Daughter and I Would Have a Place to Live – Five Years Later, He Passed Away, and His Lawyer Said, ‘He Knew You Would Fall for It’

I clenched my fists beneath the table.

Tom reached for my hand. His fingers were warm, but they trembled against mine.

“We’ll fight together,” he said.

We did.

I was afraid when the telephone rang. I was afraid before every scan, every appointment, every quiet conversation between doctors in the hallway. At night, when Tom finally slept, I pressed my face into the pillow so he wouldn’t hear me cry.

But every morning, I smiled for him.

Perhaps that was bravery—not being unafraid, but waking up each day with terror in your chest and choosing to keep going.

We emptied our savings. I borrowed money. We tried specialists in other cities, new combinations of medicine, and an experimental treatment that offered us only the smallest chance. I clung to that chance as if it were a rope hanging over a cliff.

A year after that first appointment, I held Tom’s hand as his breathing slowed.

He looked at me and smiled weakly.

Then he was gone.

I sat in the living room dressed in black and looked at piles of bills on the table before me. Emily played at my feet, her father’s death beyond her understanding yet, and her toy kitten seemed to mock me.

So much for not being a stray kitten anymore.

I gazed at the store uniform on the hanger. Without Tom, I could never afford daycare and out flat, let alone make a dent in hospital bills.

I needed a new job.

After a day of job hunting, my eyes landed on a housekeeping job for Richard, an old wealthy man. I had only once seen his estate on the outskirts of the town. It was massive. How could he only need one housekeeper?

Well, I didn’t have much of a choice. I called the number and headed to the interview in a few days, Emily by my side.