After my husband boarded a plane for a business trip, my six-year-old suddenly tugged my hand and whispered, “Mom… we can’t go back home. This morning I heard Dad on the phone, talking about something that involves us—and it didn’t sound right.” So we didn’t go back.

She slid papers toward me. Grainy photos. Bank statements. Notes.

“His businesses have been effectively bankrupt for two years,” she continued. “He’s been patching holes with money that should never have been his.”

My mouth went dry. “What money?”

She met my eyes. “Your mother’s inheritance.”

The room swayed. I gripped the mug hard enough to hurt.

My mother had left me one hundred fifty thousand dollars. Not wealth, but security. A buffer. I’d put it in a joint account because we were married, because Quasi had smiled and said, “What’s mine is yours, babe.”

He’d taken it.

“All of it,” Attorney Okafor said gently, as if she knew how hard the words would land. “Every cent.”

Something hot moved through me. Rage, sharp and clean.

“And now?” I asked, voice thin.

“Now he owes close to half a million,” she said. “And the people he owes want payment.”

I stared down at the papers like they might rearrange themselves into a different reality.

“How does burning the house help him?” I whispered.

Attorney Okafor didn’t blink. “Life insurance.”

My stomach turned.

“You have a policy for two and a half million, correct?” she asked.

I nodded, barely able to speak. “Yes.”

“And the beneficiary?” she pressed.

“Quasi.”