When I fulfilled my dream and bought a house for my husband and me, he declared on the very first day: «My mom, sister, and kids will live with us…

The situation changed three years ago when an unforeseen event occurred. My second cousin Aunt Eleanor Hayes, whom I had seen maybe a couple of times in my life, suddenly passed away, leaving me a substantial sum of money. She was a lonely woman, no children, and the only relatives left were me and a few other second cousins scattered across the country.

Why she chose me as her heir, I don’t know. Maybe she remembered how I helped her with paperwork when she applied for Social Security. Or perhaps she just thought I needed the money more than the other relatives.

The amount was significant—eighty thousand dollars. For me, used to saving every penny, it was a fortune. Suddenly, the dream of my own house no longer seemed unattainable.

I thought long about whether to tell Ethan the full amount of the inheritance. On one hand, husband and wife shouldn’t have secrets from each other. On the other, I knew Ethan would inevitably want to invest part of the money in his creative projects, which rarely paid off.

In the end, I decided not to tell him the whole truth. I said I had received thirty thousand dollars in inheritance and suggested using it as a down payment for the house. Ethan agreed, though not with the enthusiasm I expected.

He dreamed of a studio where he could work on design projects and hoped part of the inheritance would go toward that. But I insisted that our own house was more important. After all, in the house, we could set up a studio—there would be plenty of space for everything.

We started searching for suitable housing. We probably viewed dozens of houses—old and new, in the city and suburbs, big and small. Nothing matched my idea of the perfect house.

The layout didn’t suit, or the neighborhood was unsafe, or the price was unaffordable, even with the inheritance. It was then that Sophia, who was helping us with the search, suggested getting the mortgage in her name. «Your credit history is damaged because of your brother,» she said.

«The bank would either deny the loan or give it at a predatory interest rate. But I have a perfect credit history and a stable high income. I can get a mortgage on favorable terms.»

«But how?» I hesitated. «The house would be in your name? What if something happens? What if we quarrel?» Sophia looked at me reproachfully. «Do you really think I could take the house from you? After everything we’ve been through together?»

«No, of course not,» I said, embarrassed. «It’s just a lot of money, serious responsibility.» «We’ll draw up a contract,» Sophia said confidently.

«We’ll legally secure your rights to the house. As soon as we pay off most of the mortgage or your credit history improves, we’ll transfer the ownership to you. I’m a lawyer, Olivia, I know how to do everything right.»

That’s what we decided. Sophia took out the mortgage in her name, I made the down payment from the inheritance money, and we signed a contract under which I committed to paying the loan, and Sophia would transfer the house to me after paying a certain amount. I decided not to tell Ethan about this legal nuance yet.

Knowing his suspiciousness and complicated relationship with my sister, I feared the conversation would turn into a scandal. Besides, it was a temporary detail—the house was still bought for us, with my money, I was paying the mortgage. What difference did it make whose name it was legally in? The search continued for several more months until one day I saw a listing for a historic mansion in a quiet green neighborhood not far from downtown Seattle.

The house was more expensive than we planned, but something in its description made me call the realtor and arrange a viewing. Seeing the house, I fell in love with it at first sight. The bay window with stained glass, spacious rooms with high ceilings, antique parquet, apple orchard—everything was exactly as I had imagined in my dreams.

The house needed repairs, but its solid construction instilled confidence that it would stand for another hundred years. I immediately called Sophia and Ethan so they could see the house too. Sophia arrived within an hour, armed with a tape measure and a list of questions for the realtor.

She meticulously inspected the foundation, walls, roof, checked the plumbing and wiring, walked the perimeter of the property. «The house is sturdy,» she verdict. «It needs cosmetic repairs, but I don’t see any major issues.

The price is a bit high, but we can negotiate.» Ethan couldn’t come—he was busy with an urgent project. He promised to see the house the next day, but then other things came up, other projects, and in the end, he never made it to the viewing.

«I trust your taste,» he said when I brought up the house again. «If you like it, it must be good.» I was a bit disappointed by his indifference—after all, this was about our future family nest.

But on the other hand, it gave me freedom of choice. I could make the decision without looking back at my husband’s opinion, without fearing he would find some minor flaw and reject the house of my dreams. Sophia helped me lower the price by fifteen percent.

She knew how to bargain like no one else—politely but persistently, presenting arguments that couldn’t be refuted. The house owners, an elderly couple moving to another state to be with their children, eventually agreed to our price. The paperwork took almost three months.

We had to gather numerous certificates, statements, expert opinions. Sophia handled all the legal side, I dealt with the financial part. On the day of signing the purchase agreement, I couldn’t contain my excitement—my hands shook as I signed, and a lump rose in my throat repeatedly.

And now, three months after starting the process, the house was finally ours. I planned to surprise Ethan—bring him to the house blindfolded and solemnly hand him the keys. I imagined his joy, surprise, admiration.

I dreamed of how we would furnish our new home together, choose furniture, decide on bedroom wall colors, what curtains to hang in the living room. But in the last few weeks, Ethan’s behavior had changed. He became irritable, nervous, often stayed late at work, and when he came home, he immediately shut himself in his room, citing fatigue.

We hardly talked—only about household trifles, and even then in short phrases. When I tried to talk about the house, about the upcoming move, he brushed it off: «Later, Olivia, I’m not in the mood right now.» I attributed his strange behavior to stress.

Indeed, he had a lot of work—a major order from a new client that could open new prospects for him. Besides, moving is always stressful, a sea of hassles, unexpected expenses. It was perfectly natural that Ethan was nervous.

But there was something else that worried me. Several times, I accidentally overheard him talking on the phone with his mother. Usually, these conversations happened when he thought I was asleep or out of the house.

He spoke quietly, but individual phrases reached me: «Yes, Mom, everything is going according to plan.» «No, she suspects nothing.

Don’t worry, there’ll be enough space for everyone.» «No, not now. Need to choose the right moment.»

These snippets of conversations made me think. What plan was he talking about? What wasn’t I supposed to suspect? And who would have enough space? But I didn’t dare ask Ethan directly—I was afraid of seeming paranoid or, worse, admitting I had eavesdropped on his conversations. With Ethan’s mother, Patricia Lawson, I had always had complicated relations.

A tall, stately woman with piercing gray eyes, from our first meeting she made it clear she considered me not good enough for her only son. Too simple, too provincial, too ordinary. Patricia was a teacher of English language and literature at a prestigious high school, the widow of a well-known architect in the city.

She had raised Ethan alone since he was ten, and it seemed she saw in him not just a son, but some extension of herself, a carrier of family traditions and ambitions. My attempts to build relations with my mother-in-law invariably failed. I tried to be friendly, inquired about her health, gave gifts on holidays, but always encountered icy politeness and barely concealed contempt…