So I made her an offer.

I explained my parents’ ultimatum and proposed a deal: we would get married for one year. It would be a legal marriage only on paper—no strings attached. In return, I would pay her well. After a year, we’d quietly divorce.

Claire thought about it carefully, asked about contracts, and finally agreed.

The wedding happened quickly. My parents hosted it at their country club, barely hiding their disapproval of Claire’s modest family. Her parents, though quiet, seemed genuinely happy for her.

That night, after the ceremony, Claire showed me the photograph.

It was a faded picture of a little girl standing beside a woman in an apron.

The background looked familiar.

It was my childhood home. My pool.

And the woman beside the child was Martha—our former housekeeper.

The woman who had secretly given me cookies when I was a kid. The one who stayed beside my bed when I was sick while my parents attended parties.

Years ago, my mother had fired her, accusing her of stealing a bracelet.

Claire looked at me gently.

“Martha is my mother.”

My chest tightened as memories flooded back. I later learned the truth: my mother eventually found the bracelet she accused Martha of stealing, but never admitted her mistake. Martha’s reputation was destroyed, and she lost her job and stability.

Claire hadn’t agreed to the marriage just for money.

She wanted to see whether the lonely boy her mother once cared for had grown into a good man—or become someone like his parents.

The next day, Claire and I confronted my parents at the country club. In front of everyone, the truth came out. My mother’s false accusation, the injustice done to Martha, everything.

continued on next page

For complete cooking times, go to the next page or click the Open button (>), and don't forget to SHARE with your Facebook friends.