I Came Home to Find My Husband Left His Dying Stepfather Alone — So I Made Sure He Got Nothing
I came home for Thanksgiving. The house was freezing. A note on the counter read, “We went on a cruise.
You handle Victor.” I found his dying stepfather shivering in the dark. They left him to die, but he opened his eyes and whispered, “They don’t know about the money… help me get revenge.”
My name is Jenna Mitchell. I’m 32 years old, an Army sergeant who just returned from six months of grueling field training.
I drove three hours through snow to make it home for Thanksgiving, but I wasn’t welcomed by my husband’s hug—I was welcomed by a freezing house and a stench that hit me like a physical blow. On the kitchen counter lay a note. Mom and I went on a cruise.
You take care of Victor. Victor, my terminally ill stepfather-in-law, was on the sofa, starving and shivering in his own filth. They left a dying man to sip cocktails at sea using my house savings.
They thought I was just a soldier who follows orders. They were wrong. The Drive Home
The drive from Fort Bragg had taken longer than expected.
The North Carolina winter had decided to arrive early, turning the interstate into a slushy, treacherous mess. My truck fishtailed twice on black ice, and I white-knuckled the steering wheel for the last forty miles. But I didn’t care about the danger.
My hands gripped the wheel, my knuckles white, but my heart was lighter than it had been in half a year. For six months, I had been sleeping in mud, eating MREs that tasted like cardboard and regret, and shouting orders over the roar of artillery simulators. I’d led convoy operations, managed supply logistics in simulated combat zones, and earned my next promotion stripe through sweat and sleepless nights.
Now all I could think about was a hot shower, a glass of red wine, and Brady. I pictured my husband waiting for me at the door. Brady Mitchell.
Even after five years of marriage, just saying his name made me smile like a schoolgirl. He wasn’t military—he was soft edges and charming smiles, a real estate consultant who spent more time networking at golf courses than actually selling houses. But I didn’t mind.
I was the provider, the protector. That was my role. I just wanted him to be there, to wrap his arms around me and tell me he missed me.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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