My name is Emily Harris.
My husband was David Harris.

We were both born in a small town in Missouri, to families with very modest means. Holding hands, we came to Los Angeles to build a life from nothing — literally two empty hands. No house, no relatives, no connections — just love and the belief that one day we would have a place we could truly call home.

My youth was spent in endless days of scrimping and saving. I was used to eating instant noodles for weeks on end, refusing to buy new clothes, saving every last dollar just to afford milk for my children. Back then, our combined income was only about $2,700 a month. In a city as expensive as Los Angeles, that amount was barely enough to survive.

We rented a tiny, run-down apartment for $1,200 a month. In the summer it was stifling hot; in the winter, cold drafts seeped through the walls. Still, I kept telling myself: As long as my family is together, hardship is bearable.

The turning point came three years ago, when my eldest son had just turned four.

David was suddenly laid off.

From a confident, energetic man, he became withdrawn and silent. For nearly two months, he stayed at home, sighing endlessly, staring at the ceiling, then turning away in silence. The atmosphere in our home was so heavy that I barely dared to ask him anything.

Then Linda appeared — an old college friend of David’s.

Linda worked as an HR manager at a logistics company. She showed up right when our family was at its lowest point, like a so-called “savior.” She introduced David to a job at her company. The salary was only about $1,500 a month, far lower than what he had earned before.

I couldn’t help asking,

“Why would you accept such a low salary? How are we supposed to raise the kids?”

David snapped back immediately, his tone unusually sharp:

“Linda helped me when I was at my worst. Her company is struggling, and staying to help is the right thing to do. Don’t be so calculating and ungrateful.”

I fell silent.

Because I trusted my husband.
Because I wanted to keep the peace in our family.

So I swallowed everything and endured.

From then on, the financial burden fell almost entirely on my shoulders. I worked day and night, took on extra projects, and learned management skills on my own. After nearly a year, I was promoted to department manager, and my income rose to almost $5,000 a month.

Meanwhile, David remained stuck where he was. His salary never increased — but his so-called “overtime shifts” became more and more frequent. Some nights, he came home after midnight, exhausted, avoiding my eyes.

I kept comforting myself: Every man has his own pressures.

The breaking point came last year.

After years of saving, I had finally put aside nearly $18,000. I planned to borrow from the bank to buy a small condo on a mortgage, hoping to finally escape the life of renting.

The moment I brought up buying a home, David strongly objected.

“Give me $13,000,” he said. “I’ll invest it with a friend in a big business deal. Just one year, and we’ll be able to buy a house outright — no debt, no loans.”

I hesitated.

That money was my sweat, my tears, my youth.

But seeing the confidence in his eyes, my heart softened again.

I gave him $13,000 — almost all the savings I had accumulated over so many years.

Less than three months later, tragedy struck.

David died in a traffic accident on the highway. He passed away on the spot.

I collapsed completely.

Before I could even process the pain of losing my husband, I was crushed by financial panic. I searched through all of David’s belongings, but found no investment contracts, no business documents — nothing at all. There wasn’t a single trace of where that money had gone.

I fell into deep depression.
My three children and I were left drifting, as if lost at sea with no shore in sight.

Exactly one month after David’s death, his phone suddenly rang.

A polite female voice spoke on the other end:

“Hello, is this Mr. David Harris? I’m calling from the management office of the Sunrise Heights condominium project. Your apartment has completed interior finishing. Please come to receive the keys and the property ownership certificate.”

I was so shocked that I dropped the phone onto the floor.

I had never heard of this project.
I had never signed any purchase contract.
And David… had never told me a single word about it.

The truth that was revealed afterward left my children and me in unimaginable pain.

It turned out that for two years, David had secretly been paying installments on an apartment jointly registered with Linda.

The money I gave him was not investment capital.
It was the down payment for that apartment.

Linda was not a benefactor.
She was the woman my husband had been having an affair with for years.

The apartment was worth over $160,000 —
but it did not belong to my children and me.

I held my children tightly in my arms, feeling as though my heart had shattered into pieces.

Some wounds, no matter how much time passes,
never truly heal.