My Wife's True Love Owns Our Home

After Charlene Downing's family goes into bankruptcy, I move into a basement with her. I have to work three jobs per day in order to help her rebuild her career.

When Charlene finally succeeds in her career, she vows to give me a real home.

On our third year of marriage, I accidentally notice the property deed of our marital home. The owner of this deed appears to be Charlene's first love, Travis Roach.

With red-rimmed eyes, Charlene explains to me, "I owe him this much."

I nod in return before pushing a pile of photos in her direction. These are photos of the I.O.U notes from back when we stayed in the basement.

"You've already used our home to pay Travis back for what you owe him. Then what about the sum you owe me?"

I gently slid the property deed in front of Charlene Downing.

The words "Owner—Travis Roach" on the deed burned into my gaze.

Charlene instantly turned pale and instinctively tried to snatch the deed back. But halfway through, her hand froze in mid-air.

"Javier, let me explain," she said hoarsely.

Her eyes quickly reddened, and I was all too familiar with this look. Whenever she felt guilty toward me, she would put on this innocent yet vulnerable expression. Back then, I used to fall for it every time.

I picked up the glass of warm water in front of me and said in an unnervingly calm tone, "Alright, I'm listening."

She looked at me, a flicker of panic flashing in her eyes. It was as if my composure had taken her by surprise.

"Travis's not doing too well," she began with difficulty. "Back then, my parents objected and forced us apart. Because of that, Javier fell into a severe depression. He then took a long leave from school and nearly destroyed himself.

"So, this house is my way of making it up to him. Javier, it's what I owe him."

I nodded in understanding. "But what about what you owe me?"

Charlene froze, as if she hadn't understood what I said.

I didn't look at her again. Instead, I took out my phone and found a photo I had kept for years.

It was taken in our rented basement, which was less than 100 square feet. On a worn-out folding table were piles of debt collection letters, and there in the corner, Charlene's silhouette sat hunched, worn down by despair.

"You've paid him back with the house. Then, what about what you owe me?" I repeated.

She looked down, and her body jolted with a sudden tremor. The photo seemed to have brought back memories of those days when we clung to each other for survival in the midst of relentless hardship.

To pay off her family's astronomical debt, I quit my stable job and worked three jobs a day. During the day, I worked as a designer at a company, and at night, I drove an Uber. On weekends, I took on freelance work.