…my lawyer.
The house was in my name. My dad had transferred it to me before he passed. My husband had no legal claim to it.
My lawyer didn’t hesitate. “If he’s renting it out without your consent, that’s fraud. And the occupants are unauthorized tenants.”
Good.
Next, I drove back to the house and introduced myself to his “buddies.”
They looked confused when I told them I was the owner.
“He said it was his place,” one of them muttered.
“I’m sure he did,” I replied calmly. “But your lease is invalid. You have 30 days to vacate. I’ll be sending formal notice.”
Then I did one more thing.
I changed the locks that day — not just on my dad’s house.
On ours.
When my husband came home that evening, his key didn’t work.
He knocked. Then pounded.
I opened the door just enough to face him.
“You rented out my father’s house. Lied to your friends. And pocketed the money.”
He started stammering excuses. “We needed extra cash. I was going to tell you—”
“When?” I asked. “After they destroyed it? After you spent it?”
He fell silent.
“I’ve already spoken to a lawyer,” I continued. “You have two options. Sign the separation papers peacefully… or explain your little side business in court.”
His face drained of color.
“You’d really do that?”
I looked him straight in the eyes.
“You already did.”
Three months later, the house was restored. I refinished the floors myself, just like my dad once taught me. It became a place of quiet again.
As for my husband?
He learned that betrayal costs more than rent.
