I drove home from the lawyer’s office in a daze. My great-aunt Lila had passed away recently and, to my surprise, had left me her estate.
Three stories of limestone and ivy-covered brick from the late 1800s, it was the kind of place with wrought-iron gates, sweeping staircases, and fireplaces in every room. It had once hosted charity galas, garden tours, and even a magazine shoot in the 80s.
I entered my home and called for Nathan, my husband. His reply led me to the living room, where he was watching a documentary. I flopped down beside him on the couch.
His hand found my back, rubbing small circles between my shoulder blades.
“So, your text said that she left you the estate?”
I leaned into him.
Nathan stood. He walked away, and I thought maybe he was going to make tea, but he came back with a folder instead.
“I’m sorry about the timing,” he said. “But there’s no point in putting it off much longer.”
I took the folder. Inside were divorce papers.
You know that feeling when you’re in an elevator and it drops too fast and your stomach lurches into your throat? That’s what this was, except the elevator was my entire existence, and it wasn’t stopping.
“You’ll be better off.” His voice was steady. “I’ve been unhappy for a long time, Miranda. You know that.”
Did I? I replayed our last few months like a film reel in my head. Sure, we’d been distant, but unhappy? Divorce level unhappy?
I looked up at him; his solemn expression blurred through my tears.
“You can stay a few days,” he said. “I’m not going to kick you out tonight. I’m not a monster.”
The word “home” suddenly felt foreign in my mouth. This place, with its greige walls, reclaimed wood furniture, and collection of wedding photos in the hallway? not “ours” anymore, but “his.”
I couldn’t stay. I packed a bag in a daze and drove away, following muscle memory and instinct until I pulled up in front of Tessa’s apartment building at one in the morning.
“I don’t understand,” I kept saying, curled up on her couch with a blanket that smelled like lavender detergent. “He said he loved me. He said we’d get through anything.”
“People say a lot of things,” Tessa murmured, stroking my hair like I was a child. “Doesn’t make them true.”
***
Mr. Kravitz flipped through my file with the practiced efficiency of someone who’d seen a thousand marriages dissolve.
“Okay,” he said, tapping a pen against the papers. “Nathan’s pushing for full equity division. The house, investment accounts, your pension, and the estate.”
I blinked. “The estate’s mine. Aunt Lila left it to me.”
“Right.” He nodded.
“But you and Nathan are married in community of property. Without a prenup, anything acquired during the marriage is legally up for division.”
“But it was an inheritance.”
“Doesn’t matter.” His voice was gentle, which somehow made it worse.
My stomach knotted. This couldn’t be real. Then Mr. Kravitz said something that made my blood run cold.
“I checked the timing. He filed for divorce about half an hour after you signed the paperwork to accept your inheritance.”
The pieces clicked together like a lock opening. I pulled out my phone and checked my sent messages.
“Oh, my God.” I could barely breathe. “He planned this. He knew she was dying, and he waited until I got the estate before filing.”
Mr. Kravitz hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “I doubt we can prove that with certainty. The timing is certainly suspicious, but it would take more than that to satisfy a judge.”
The fluorescent lights buzzed above us, casting everything in harsh white light. No shadows to hide in, no soft edges, just reality, sharp and unforgiving.
I thought of the estate with its turrets, gardens, and memories of sliding across the marble floors in my socks, great-aunt Lila’s laughter echoing around me, and paper lanterns strung through ancient oak trees like captured stars.
The devastation that had been drowning me for days solidified into something with edges of its own.
Mr. Kravitz cleared his throat gently. “Divorce settlements often come down to negotiation, a trade-off where we simply try to split everything up in a way that works best for the parties involved. But if you believe Nathan acted in bad faith, this might get ugly. What do you want to do?”
That evening, I got an email from great-aunt Lila’s lawyer. It contained inspection reports and appraisals of the estate. It also had a link to a folder filled with photographs.
Tessa peered over my shoulder, coffee mug in hand. “Is that your Aunt Lila’s estate? Wow.”
“Yeah,” I said, studying the images in one tab while scanning the documents in another.
Nathan had fought dirty. Maybe I couldn’t prove it, but I knew it in my gut. I’d thought the best way to get back at him would be to go toe to toe with him in court, but now I had a better idea, a way to beat him at his own game.
I shut my laptop and went to bed with a smile on my face.
***
Nathan lounged across the aisle in a crisp suit, confidence radiating off him like cologne. He caught my eye and had the audacity to smirk.
The judge flipped through papers with the weary expression of someone who’d mediated too many divorces.
Nathan’s lawyer stood, buttoning his jacket.
“Your Honor, the estate is symbolic of the family’s legacy. My client intends to honor that legacy.” He gestured toward me like I was a prop in his presentation. “Miranda has no interest in country living. She’s emotionally unsuited to managing such a property.”
I flinched? just enough to make it look like he’d hit me where it hurt.
“With respect, the estate was inherited solely by my client. Her great aunt’s will made no mention of her husband.”
“But,” Nathan’s lawyer countered, “the inheritance was received during the marriage. Under community property law, it’s contestable.”
“Contestable doesn’t mean automatic entitlement,” my lawyer fired back.
The judge sighed. “Are either of you willing to settle this portion out of court?”
I exhaled, letting my shoulders tremble like I was on the verge of tears. I hesitated as I spoke, just enough to make it seem like I was struggling.
“If I retain full rights to the rental property, the house, and we each walk away with our own financial accounts, no further claims?” I met Nathan’s eyes across the courtroom. “Then he can have the estate.”
Stunned silence.
The judge nodded, already writing. “Miranda keeps the primary residence, rental property, and her investments. Nathan is awarded the estate. No spousal support either way. Are both parties satisfied?”
I nodded once. Nathan looked like he’d won the lottery.
“Then I’ll finalize the decree.”
And then I laughed.
The sound echoed through the courtroom, bright and sharp, startling enough that everyone turned to stare.
Nathan’s smile faltered. “What’s so funny?”
I met his gaze, still smiling. “You’ll see.”
Outside, crisp fall air bit at my cheeks. The courthouse columns rose behind me like ancient sentinels bearing witness to justice. Or irony ? sometimes they’re the same thing.
Nathan caught up with me on the steps. “What the hell was that? Why were you laughing?”
I turned slowly, savoring the moment.
I unlocked my phone, opened the email about the estate, and clicked through to the photos. I held it out so he could see the screen as I scrolled through the images.
Nathan’s expression shifted from confusion to curiosity to dawning horror as he took in the black mold veining the ceilings like poisonous artwork and collapsed beams.
Lastly, I showed him the preservation notice stamped in aggressive red.
“Every wall’s soaked in mold, you can’t tear it down because it’s a protected historical site, can’t insure it, can’t sell it, and fixing it will cost more than it’s worth.”
His face drained of color. “You knew. You tricked me!”
“I gave you what you wanted, Nathan.” I stepped closer, my voice dropping.
