Jane heard the front door slam at two in the morning. Ben stumbled in, reeking of whiskey.
“Jane! Wake up!” His voice was slurred, aggressive.
She sat up in bed, eight months pregnant. “Ben, it’s late. Please—”
“I need the money. All of it.” He swayed in the doorway.
Her heart sank. “What money?”
“Don’t play stupid. The savings. For the baby.” He lurched toward the dresser.
“Ben, no. That’s for the hospital, for diapers, for—”
“I need it NOW!” He yanked open the drawer, rifling through papers.
Jane struggled out of bed. “Please. You promised you were done gambling.”
“I’m not gambling! I’m investing!” He found the envelope. Five thousand dollars.
“Ben, that’s our baby’s future—”
“I’ll double it. Triple it. You’ll see.” He shoved the money in his pocket.
Jane grabbed his arm. Tears streamed down her face. “Please don’t do this. Not again.”
He shook her off. She lost her balance and dropped to her knees, sobbing, one hand on her belly.
“Ben… please…”
He looked down at her. For a moment, something flickered in his eyes. Guilt. Shame.
Then he turned and walked out.
Jane stayed on the floor, crying until there were no tears left. This was the fourth time. The fourth time he’d promised to change.
She pulled herself up using the bed frame. Her hands shook as she wiped her face.
No more.
By dawn, she’d made calls to three lawyers. By noon, she had a plan.
Ben came home the next evening with flowers. Gas station roses.
“Baby, I’m sorry. I was drunk. I wasn’t thinking.”
Jane sat on the couch, face neutral. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine. I know that.” He knelt beside her. “I’ll pay it back. I swear. I’m done. For real this time.”
She’d heard this speech before. Word for word.
“Ben, I need you to sign something.”
His expression shifted. Suspicion. “Sign what?”
“Papers from Dr. Martinez. Routine stuff for couples having a baby. Legal protection documents, insurance forms.”
Ben relaxed. “Oh. Yeah, sure. Where?”
She handed him a stack of papers. He barely glanced at them.
“You need to read—”
“I trust you, babe.” He signed on every marked line. Seven signatures. “There. Done.”
Jane took the papers and walked to the bedroom.
Two days later, Ben got home at six PM. The house looked wrong. The front door was open.
Jane stood in the driveway, a red gas canister in her hands. Inside the house, picture frames were scattered across the floor.
“Jane? What are you doing?”
She didn’t answer. She stepped back from the doorway. Struck a match. Dropped it.
The gasoline ignited instantly. Flames raced across the hardwood floor.
“JANE, ARE YOU INSANE?!” Ben ran toward the house.
She stood perfectly still, tears streaming down her face.
“THIS IS OUR HOUSE!” He scooped snow from the yard, throwing it uselessly at the flames. “WE WORKED FOR YEARS!”
The fire roared. Windows shattered from the heat.
Jane turned and walked to her car. Got in, started the engine, and drove away.
“JANE! JANE, STOP!”
Ben stood in the driveway, watching their life burn.
Three days passed. Ben called Jane fifty times. Every call went to voicemail.
Finally he pulled himself together enough to think about insurance. The house was insured for $180,000.
Ben drove to Liberty Mutual on Friday morning.
The agent, Carol, pulled up his file. “Mr. Hayes. I’m sorry about your loss.”
“Thanks. I need to file a claim. The house is a total loss.”
Carol typed, frowning at her screen. “Mr. Hayes, I have some difficult news.”
“What?”
“Your wife already filed the claim. The check was issued yesterday.”
Ben’s blood went cold. “What do you mean?”
“Mrs. Hayes submitted all the documentation. As the sole owner of the property—”
“SOLE OWNER? It’s both our names!”
Carol turned her monitor toward him. “Not according to the deed. You transferred your ownership stake to your wife and your unborn child. See? Your signature. Notarized.”
Ben stared at the document on screen. His signature. Seven times.
The “routine pregnancy papers.”
“No… no, she said these were medical forms—”
“These are quit claim deeds, Mr. Hayes. Property transfer documents. All legal and binding.”
“Where did the check go?”
“To Mrs. Hayes. She also closed your joint bank account and opened a new one in her name only.”
“She can’t do that!”
“She can if you willingly signed over your rights. I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do.”
Ben drove to Jane’s mother’s house. Her mother answered the door with eyes like ice.
“She’s not here.”
“Where is she?”
“Somewhere safe. Somewhere you’ll never find her.”
“That’s my baby!”
“That baby deserves better than a father who gambles away their future.” The door clicked shut.
Six months later, Ben was working two jobs, trying to dig himself out of debt.
One day, an envelope arrived. Inside was a single photograph.
A baby girl. Pink blanket. Tiny fists.
On the back, in Jane’s handwriting: “Her name is Sophie. She’s healthy. She’s loved. Don’t look for us.”
Ben stared at the photo until his vision blurred with tears.
His daughter. His daughter he’d never meet. Because he’d chosen poker chips over her future.
The photo slipped from his fingers.
He’d lost everything. The house, the money, his wife, his child. And unlike his gambling debts, there was no way to win this back.
Somewhere across the state, Jane rocked baby Sophie in a small apartment. The insurance money was in a trust fund. Untouchable except for Sophie’s needs.
She kissed her daughter’s forehead. “You’re safe now. We both are.”
The nightmare was over. And she’d burned it all down to make sure it could never come back.