The moment we finished signing the papers for our new house, my husband threw divorce papers on the table. “Sign it! And get out of my house. I’m done supporting you!” His mother smirked. “This house was bought by my son. You contributed nothing.” I smiled calmly. “Your house? Funny… my father wired $500,000 for the down payment.” Their faces froze. “W–what?” his mother stammered. I leaned in, voice cool as steel. “This isn’t your house. It’s my father’s—and you forgot the condition in the contract.”

And that’s when I set the trap, a trap three years in the making, its jaws waiting to be sprung.

“Well,” I said, my voice as soft and naive as I could make it, the voice of a simple, loving wife who just wanted to see her husband’s dreams come true. “I… I could ask my dad. He always said that if we ever found our forever home, he might be able to loan us the deposit, just to hold the house. He just wants to see us happy.”

David and Margaret (who was, as always, on a video chat propped up on the kitchen counter, a digital gargoyle observing our lives) exchanged a look. It was a flicker, a micro-expression, but I saw it. Pure, unadulterated greed. They saw a fool, and a foolish, sentimental old man with a fat bank account just waiting to be plucked.

“That’s a great idea, honey,” David said, his voice suddenly dripping with a newfound, cloying affection, patting my shoulder in a gesture of magnanimous approval. “Call your father. Tell him it’s for me. For us. Tell him it’s the key to our future.”