My ex and I were together for 20 years without marrying.
I left him three years ago after he cheated. Six months later, he and the other woman got married.
I moved on and had a daughter with my boyfriend. My ex still texted me on birthdays, but when he found out about my daughter, he accused me of cheating. I never replied.
A few months later, he died in a car crash.
Then, I found out that he had left his entire estate (amounting to $700,000) to me. I was stunned!
Jack’s wife demanded that I give it to her and their kids! I was thinking about it… but then I got a shocking letter from him, in which he—
I was thinking about it… but then I got a shocking letter from him, in which he explained everything.
It was handwritten, dated two weeks before his accident. In it, he confessed that marrying the other woman was a mistake — one he made out of pride, not love. He admitted that he had never stopped loving me and that he regretted everything, especially the way he treated me when he found out about my daughter.
Then came the part that truly left me breathless.
He wrote:
“I know she’s not mine by blood, but I always hoped one day, she’d still see me as family. I didn’t leave you the money out of guilt — I left it because deep down, I still saw you as my only true home. I want you to use it to build the life you always deserved, the life I never gave you. Do not give a single cent to my wife — she used me until the end. I knew it. And I let it happen. Let this be the one right thing I do.”
I read the letter five times, my hands trembling each time. All the bitterness, the years we’d lost, the betrayal—it suddenly felt heavier, more complicated. He was flawed, but he was human. And now he was gone.
When I told Jack’s wife about the letter, she called me a liar. She threatened to sue. But I had the original envelope, with his handwriting, and the date. My lawyer confirmed the will was solid and the letter, while not legally binding, made my case even stronger.
In the end, I kept the money. Not out of revenge, but out of respect for the man he tried to become before the end.
And I used it to buy a small house. A safe, warm place for my daughter to grow up. A place filled with peace, not secrets. I didn’t speak ill of him, not even to her. One day, when she’s older, I’ll let her read that letter — and decide for herself what to think.
Because some stories aren’t just black and white. Some are written in messy, heartfelt gray.
