My mother-in-law had been under the weather for days, barely eating and looking awful. Matt and I were supposed to sign the papers that night — we were finally buying the house we’d been renting for five years.
Out of nowhere, he pulls me aside, worried. “Mom’s not doing well,” he says. “She hasn’t eaten all day. Can you bring her dinner?”
I blinked. “We have the meeting with the agent in an hour — can’t we just order takeout?”
He looked at me like I’d suggested we cancel Thanksgiving. “No. She needs homemade food. Your lasagna. You know she loves it.”
Fine. Maybe this is the thing that finally makes her see me as family, I thought.
I spent hours on that lasagna — sauce simmering, layers of cheese — packed it up at six and hit the road. Forty minutes away, slow traffic, my stomach full of nerves.
Halfway there, my phone buzzed. It was my lawyer, Sarah. “GO BACK HOME. NOW. THEY’RE AT YOUR HOUSE,” she said.
“What?” I asked, confused. “Matt isn’t worried about his mom,” Sarah shouted. “He’s trying to close on the house WITHOUT your name on the deed. The title company just flagged it. He told them you were ‘unavailable’ and waiving your rights, but using the joint account for the down payment!”
My blood turned to ice. I slammed on the brakes, pulled a U-turn right over the median, and sped back home. When I pulled into the driveway, I saw it: His mom’s car. I stormed inside, still holding the heavy tray of lasagna.
There, at our kitchen table, sat Matt, the real estate agent… and his “sick” mother. She wasn’t dying. She was sitting up, laughing, eating Chinese takeout. Matt had a pen in his hand, hovering over the signature line.
“Matt!” I yelled. He jumped, dropping the pen. His face went white. “Honey! You… you’re back early! Did you drop off the food?” “Cut the act,” I snapped. I looked at his mother. “You look remarkably healthy for someone who couldn’t eat all day.” She wiped soy sauce off her lip, looking annoyed. “Well, I recovered. We were just handling business since you were busy.”
I turned to the agent. “Is my name on that deed?” The agent looked uncomfortable. “Uh, no ma’am. Mr. Bulvian stated you were waiving your ownership rights due to… financial instability?”
“I make double his salary,” I laughed, cold and sharp. “And that down payment in escrow? 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 confirmed.
Matt stood up, panic in his eyes. “Babe, wait! It was just for tax reasons! Mom said it would be better if—”
“Mom said?” I interrupted. “Well, I hope Mom has $50,000 for a down payment. Because I’m keeping mine.” I looked at the lasagna in my hands—still bubbling hot. “I made this for family,” I said. I walked over and dropped the entire tray—sauce, cheese, and glass—right onto the contract in front of them. “But I don’t see any family here.”
I stayed at a hotel that night. I bought my own house three months later. Matt is back living with his mother. I heard she still complains about the lasagna stain on her carpet.
