At 35, I married my wealthy 72-year-old boss so my daughter and I wouldn’t end up homeless. After he died, his lawyer looked at me and said, “He prepared this trap specifically for you… and he knew you would fall into it.”

Something I hadn’t understood at the time.

He had looked at me across his study and asked,

“Nora, where did you grow up?”

I had told him.

The name of the shelter.

The city.

The neighborhood.

Richard had gone completely still.

Then he had smiled.

“I see,” he said.

I had thought nothing of it.

I should have.

Because Richard had known me long before I ever knew him.

And the story of how we met really began decades earlier.

My entire childhood was a collection of temporary places.

I grew up in foster care.

There was never one bedroom that truly belonged to me.

Never one family photograph where I knew I would still be there the following year.

Sometimes I stayed with families who were kind.

Sometimes they weren’t.

Sometimes I was told I was staying for a few weeks.

Sometimes nobody bothered explaining why I had to leave.