When Michael asked for a divorce, I was crushed but clueless. Then I saw him weeks later—living like a king. Expensive suits, fancy dinners, a car I couldn’t afford in my wildest dreams.
One afternoon, he smugly handed me a $100 bill, like I was some charity case. I nearly threw it back—until I saw the little star I’d drawn in the corner.
My hands shook. That was my grandfather’s money.
Years ago, he’d offered me his savings, but I turned it down, wanting to earn my own way. To cheer him up, I’d doodled on one of the bills. Now, Michael had it.
Harrison, Grandpa’s closest friend, confirmed my worst fear: Michael had been given that money to hold for me. Instead, he took it and left.
With Harrison’s help, I found Logan, a lawyer who actually listened. We confronted Michael, and when faced with legal consequences, he folded. He agreed to return the money, bit by bit.
A year later, I opened a pet rescue in my grandfather’s honor. Logan, who’d been my rock, became my husband.
I still carry that $100 bill. It’s a reminder that even when trust is broken, new beginnings are possible.
