Walter was 78, old enough to be my grandfather, but he was rich. I married him because I thought I’d finally found the shortcut to the life I deserved. Then he grabbed the microphone during our wedding vows and announced that I didn’t know the most important detail about his fortune.
At 29, I had mastered the art of leaving a job before anyone could fire me.
I quit a dental office because the receptionist chair hurt my posture.
I lasted eleven days at a clothing boutique before deciding fluorescent lighting was hostile to my complexion.
Walter was 78, old enough to be my grandfather, but he was rich.
My brief career in real estate ended when I learned open houses involved standing for hours and sometimes answering questions about plumbing.
My mother kept a folder of job applications for me. I kept a folder of luxury homes.
“One of these folders is useful,” she said.
“I agree.”
She looked hopeful until I lifted mine.
I kept a folder of luxury homes.
I had never considered myself lazy. I simply believed certain people were designed for effort, while others were designed to inspire it.
“I am not meant for office life,” I told my parents over dinner. “I’ll marry someone successful.”
Dad set down his fork.
“Marriage is not a retirement plan, Sally. Not with that attitude.”
Then I met Walter.
“I’ll marry someone successful.”
He was dining alone at an expensive restaurant where I had gone with a friend who believed ordering one appetizer and taking photographs near the chandelier counted as an evening out.
Walter sat near the window in a navy suit.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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