My mother-in-law had supposedly been sick for days. Too weak to cook. Too nauseous to eat. According to my husband, Matt, she was barely holding herself together.
That same evening, Matt and I were supposed to sign the final paperwork for a house we’d been renting for five years. It was the biggest step of our marriage so far.
An hour before we were set to leave, Matt pulled me aside, eyes full of concern.
“Mom isn’t doing well,” he said quietly. “She hasn’t eaten all day. Can you bring her dinner?”
I stared at him. “We’re meeting the agent in an hour. Can’t we just order her something?”
His expression hardened, like I’d said something unforgivable.
“No. She needs homemade food. Your lasagna. You know she loves it.”
I hesitated—but then guilt crept in. Maybe this would finally make her see me as family.
So I cooked.
I spent hours on that lasagna. Sauce simmered. Cheese layered perfectly. By six o’clock, I packed it up and hit the road—forty minutes away, traffic crawling, my stomach tight with stress about the signing.
Halfway there, my phone rang.
It was my lawyer, Sarah.
“TURN AROUND. RIGHT NOW,” she said.
“What? Why?” I asked, heart racing.
“They’re at your house,” she snapped. “Matt is trying to close on the house without your name on the deed.”
My hands went numb.
“What do you mean?”
“He told the title company you were unavailable and waiving your ownership rights,” she said. “But he’s using your joint account for the down payment. They just flagged it.”
I didn’t think. I slammed the brakes, cut a U-turn across the median, and drove back like my life depended on it.
When I pulled into the driveway, I saw my mother-in-law’s car.
I walked inside, still holding the lasagna.
There they were—Matt, the real estate agent, and his supposedly “dying” mother. She was upright, laughing, eating Chinese takeout. Matt had a pen hovering over the contract.
“Matt!” I yelled.
He dropped the pen like it burned him. His face drained of color.
“Honey! You’re—uh—back early. Did you drop off the food?”
“Stop,” I said coldly.
I looked at his mother. “You look remarkably healthy for someone who couldn’t eat all day.”
She dabbed soy sauce from her mouth, irritated. “I felt better. We were just handling business since you were busy.”
I turned to the agent. “Is my name on that deed?”
The agent shifted uncomfortably. “No, ma’am. Mr. Bulvian stated you were waiving ownership due to… financial instability.”
I laughed—short and sharp.
“I make double his salary. And that down payment? That’s my inheritance.”
I pulled out my phone and called the bank on speaker.
“Cancel the wire transfer to the title company. Immediate stop payment.”
“Done,” the banker replied.
Matt stood up, panic spilling into his voice.
“Babe, wait! It was for tax reasons! Mom said it would be better if—”
“Mom said?” I interrupted. “Then Mom can come up with fifty thousand dollars. Because I’m keeping mine.”
I looked down at the lasagna, still hot in my hands.
“I made this for family,” I said.
Then I dropped the entire tray—glass, sauce, and melted cheese—directly onto the contract.
“But I don’t see any family here.”
I stayed at a hotel that night.
Three months later, I bought my own house.
Matt moved back in with his mother.
And I heard she still complains about the lasagna stain on her carpet.
