Page 57 of The House That Held Her

It’s been months since I got laid off from CirroSystems. At first, I told Margot I was working from home on special projects, burying the truth that I was caught using my corporate card for gambling expenses. I remember the panic welling up in my throat when HR confronted me—signing my name on the termination papers with shaky hands. Since then, I’ve been piling lie on top of lie, hoping I could catch a lucky break, pay everything back, and Margot would never know.

But luck’s a joke. I was always chasing that big payout, that one final hand of poker or last parlay bet that’d magically fix our financial crisis. The ledger in front of me now says otherwise—there is no magical fix. Just a cold, brutal bottom line.

A knock on the front door jars me from the miserable trance I’ve been in. It’s early, and I’m not expecting anyone. I walk over, telling myself to act normal, praying it’s not a bill collector in person. When I open the door, a courier in a uniform hands me a thick envelope.

“Certified letter for Nate Bennett,” he says, monotone. I sign on his tablet with clammy fingers, and he leaves without a word. Closing the door, I return to the kitchen, the envelope feeling weighty in my hands. It’s from a law office I’ve never heard of, the kind of mail that usually means lawsuits or more debts. My stomach clenches as I tear it open, half expecting to see the usual demands for money I don’t have. Instead, I catch the words:

To: Nathaniel Bennett (Beneficiary – Son)

Re: Estate of George Hawthorn (Testator – Father)

My head spins. Father? I hardly know anything about him—he left before I was even born. Taking my mom’s last name, Bennett, was all the inheritance I earned. And now, I’m apparently heir to his estate? I fight the urge to laugh. It’s too insane.

I read on. George Hawthorn, deceased, owned various properties and businesses in Florida. Most of them sound like they need money more than I do, but a single property jumps out at me: a property called Hawthorn Manor in Mount Dora, Florida, which has been left to me. My mind whirls: is this some kind of sick joke? If it’s not, how much is this property worth? I’ve never even set foot in Florida. This can’t be right.

I re-read the letter again hoping to understand more about what’s happening here, but the second read through leaves me even more confused than the first time. This documentation looks legitimate. And if it is, then– why me? If he was so sure about me existing, why had he never contacted me before? And why leave me this property? It could be a rundown shack or loaded with back taxes for all I know. It might not be worth a dime.

But here’s the thing: I’m desperate. My debts are crushing me, and creditors are sniffing around. I feel like a caged animal, lunging at any hint of an open door. If there’s even a slim chance this place has legitimate value—enough to cover part of my gambling debts—then maybe I can keep Margot in the dark a little longer. The idea churns in my gut, making me sweat. But the alternative is telling her everything: that I’ve been out of work, that I lied, that I bet away our future on card tables and online sportsbooks.

I look again at the laptop, where my empty bank account still glows. I can’t pretend this is some guaranteed windfall. An old house in Florida isn’t necessarily an instant fortune. For all I know, it’s a money pit, falling apart at the seams. Yet I feel a tiny spark of hope. If there’s equity in it—if I can sell it, or at least convince Margot we should move in and somehow keep the collectors off my back—maybe we can reboot our lives.

I slide the letter back into its envelope with trembling hands. My thoughts dart to Margot. She’s been through so much already—Lila, enduring that painful trial, and all the emotional fallout. She deserves peace and stability. She deserves the husband I promised her I’d be, not this liar with a gambling addiction.

I take a deep breath, trying to keep my guilt at bay. Maybe I can spin this. Frame it as a sudden inheritance—truthful enough—and then downplay the financial aspect. If I say I’ve used our “savings” to buy the house outright, she might not suspect there never was a savings account to begin with. It’s risky, borderline insane, but so is letting her find out we’re drowning in debt. So is waiting for the next round of angry phone calls and visits from collectors.

Clutching the envelope, I power down the laptop. My plan—half-formed and riddled with holes—takes root in my mind. I’ll do what needs to be done to keep Margot safe from my mistakes. If this manor is worthless, at least I’ll have tried something. If it’s worth enough to put a dent in my debt, then maybe we have a future that doesn’t end with my life in shambles.

For the first time in weeks, I feel the smallest flicker of determination. I’ll take this inheritance, flawed or not, and see if it can save me—save us. Because the alternative is admitting I let everything slip through my fingers, and I’m not ready for Margot to see who I really am yet.

45

Isettle onto the couch next to Margot, careful not to startle her. Her gaze is locked on the TV, but I know she’s not really seeing it. The flickering light dances across her face, revealing the hollowness in her eyes. Ever since the trial, she’s been like this—slipping further and further away, drowning in her own thoughts. She hasn’t returned to work since they forced her out at CPS; not that they’d be calling her back, anyway. And leaving the house? Out of the question.

For me, though, this is a window of opportunity. If there’s ever been a time to nudge her toward something new, it’s now.

I lean in just enough so my shoulder grazes hers, my arm resting along the back of the couch. “You know,” I say softly, pitching my voice like I’m holding back a secret, “I’ve been thinking. Maybe we could use a change of scenery.”

Margot keeps her stare fixed on the screen. I sense her resistance in the way her jaw tenses. Change has never been easy for her, but I need her to believe this is all for her benefit.

“Is that so?” she answers after a beat, voice soft and brittle.

I ease closer, trying to match her tone—light, unthreatening. “Yeah, you know, maybe somewhere… different,” I say. “We’re not tied to Maryland anymore. I can work from anywhere these days. Plus, all these memories— they keep us stuck, Margot. Maybe a fresh start is exactly what we need.”

Her eyes flicker, a hint of life behind that vacant expression, as though she’s trying to piece something together.

I drop my voice, as if I’m letting her in on a personal confession. “We could go somewhere you can breathe again. Somewhere you won’t walk outside and see ghosts on every corner.” I let that hang for a moment, then offer a slight shrug. “We deserve it, don’t we? A chance at a fresh start.”

She stiffens, and I know she’s not convinced. But I don’t press too hard. Instead, I lean back, giving her a little space. “I hate seeing you like this, Margot. You deserve to feel alive again. I miss your laugh, I miss your smile, I miss– you.”

She’s quiet, eyes drifting. I stay silent too, letting her imagine what a new start could look like. I’m certain she’s picturing the last few months—losing Lila, her forced resignation, the trial. All those painful moments pulling her down.

After a long, tense pause, she murmurs, “Somewhere warm?”

I nod, a careful smile creeping across my face. “You bet. A place with a big garden, a lot of sun. A place that feels like a real beginning for us.”

Finally, she turns to look at me. Her gaze is weary, but at least she’s looking. “Are you serious right now, Nate? Is that something we can even afford?” she asks.

Her question hangs in the air. It’s the moment I’ve been waiting for. “It is,” I say, steadying my voice. “I think we’ve been through enough to deserve a shot at something new.”

---