For eleven years, my husband’s children told anyone who would listen that I had married their father for one reason: his house.
They never seemed to care how much I loved Frank. They never cared about the life we built together, the years we shared, or the way I stood beside him through some of the hardest moments of his life.
To them, I was always the woman who had come after their mother died—and somehow, in their minds, that meant I must have been after the property, too.
My name is Patricia, and I married Frank eleven years ago, three years after his first wife, Linda, passed away.
Frank and I were both older when we met. I was 45, and I believed I had already learned enough about life to understand that love was not something you could plan or force. It simply happened.
At least, that was what I thought.
From the very beginning, Frank’s two adult children, Brad and Stephanie, made it clear that they did not want me in their family.
I still remember our first Thanksgiving together.
I was standing in the kitchen, helping Frank carry dishes into the dining room, when I heard Stephanie talking to Brad.
“She’s just here for the house,” she said.
She didn’t whisper.
In fact, she seemed almost determined to make sure I heard her.
I froze for a moment, then continued walking as though I hadn’t heard anything.
The house they were talking about was impressive.
Frank had built it decades earlier with Linda. It sat on four acres of land and had become one of the most valuable properties in the area. The house itself had a long driveway, mature trees surrounding it, and enough land that you could stand outside and feel completely separated from the road.