The moving truck pulled into my driveway at exactly 3:47 p.m. on a Tuesday, and I watched from behind my kitchen curtains as my husband of 12 years helped another woman carry boxes into the house I had spent 8 months renovating with my own two hands. My name is Marca, and 3 hours ago, I was supposed to be dead.

The cold marble countertop pressed against my palms as I steadied myself, watching through the window as Raiden, my Raiden, wrapped his arms around a petite brunette with perfectly curled hair and designer clothes. She giggled like a teenager as he spun her around on the front porch, the same porch where I had scraped off three layers of old paint in the blazing summer heat while he claimed to be working late every night.

Behind them, a small white dog with a pink bow bounced excitedly, leaving muddy paw prints on the pristine wooden floors I had refinished on my hands and knees. The house looked perfect, every wall painted in the soft cream colors we had chosen together. Every fixture polished to gleaming perfection, every room designed with love and hope for our future together.

A future that apparently doubt included her. My phone buzzed on the counter beside me. A text from my sister, Kate. Marsha, please tell me you got my message. Call me back now. I had gotten her message. 17 missed calls and 43 texts. All variations of the same desperate plea. Don’t go to the doctor alone. Wait for me.

Something’s wrong with your test results. But I had gone alone to Dr. Evander’s office that morning, expecting to hear about my routine blood work. Instead, I sat in that sterile room with its motivational posters and fake plants while he told me about the mixup at the lab. How my results had been accidentally switched with another patient named Marshall Landon.

How I was perfectly healthy, not dying of the rare blood condition they had diagnosed me with 6 months ago. 6 months. That’s how long I had believed I was dying. That’s how long Raiden had known I was supposed to be dying. The front door opened and Raiden’s voice echoed through the house I had poured my heart into. Welcome home, beautiful.

I told you it was perfect home. He was calling this her home. Oh my god, Raiden. It’s even more gorgeous than in the pictures. She squealled. Her voice was higher than mine younger. Probably everything I used to be before 12 years of marriage, and the stress of thinking I was dying aged me beyond my 34 years.

I heard the click of high heels on the hardwood floors as she explored room by room, gushing over every detail I had carefully planned and executed. The crown molding I had installed myself after watching YouTube videos for hours. The kitchen island I had designed and built from scratch.

The master bathroom with the claw foot tub I had spent weeks searching for at antique shops. And this kitchen, she exclaimed. It’s like something from a magazine. You’re so lucky your wife was handy with all this renovation stuff before she, you know, before she died. That’s what she was going to say.

Raiden’s voice dropped to what he probably thought was a respectful whisper, but sound carried perfectly through the open floor plan I had created. Isabella, you don’t need to worry about that anymore. Marsh is at peace now. This is our fresh start. Our fresh start in the house I was supposed to die in, but never got the chance to enjoy.

I looked down at my hands, still stained with paint under my fingernails despite scrubbing them raw this morning. These hands had stripped wallpaper and sanded wood and hung every picture on these walls. These hands had built this dream home while my husband counted down the days until my death freed him to move in his mistress.

The white dog scampered into the kitchen, saw me standing by the sink, and began barking frantically. Princess, what’s wrong, baby? Isabella’s voice got closer. Did you find something interesting? I smiled for the first time in 6 months. A cold, sharp smile that felt foreign on my face.

Oh, she definitely found something interesting, I said, stepping out from behind the kitchen island. Before we continue, please write in the comment which country you are watching this video. We love knowing where our global family is tuning in from. And if this is your first time on this channel, please subscribe.

Your support helps us bring even more epic revenge tales of life. Enjoy listening. The scream that erupted from Isabella’s perfectly glossed lips was so piercing that Princess began howling in harmony. She stumbled backward in her stiletto heels, designer purse flying from her shoulder and scattering its contents across my freshly mopped floor.

Raiden appeared in the doorway, his face cycling through confusion, shock, and finally landing on pure terror. “Varaa,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over Isabella’s continued shrieking. “But but you’re dead,” I finished for him, my voice steady despite the hurricane of emotions raging in my chest. Funny story about that.

Isabella had backed herself against the refrigerator. One manicured hand pressed to her chest as she gasped for air. “You said she was dead, Raiden. You said your wife was dead.” “She was supposed to be.” Raiden stammered, his face now matching the white of his polo shirt. “The doctor said Marsha the cancer.

” “Not cancer,” I corrected, taking a step closer to them. a rare blood disorder, one that would have killed me slowly, painfully over the next few months, one that apparently I never actually had. The silence that followed was deafening. Even Princess had stopped barking and was now cowering behind Isabella’s legs. Raiden’s mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air.

The lab results were mixed up with another patient. “Oops,” I shrugged as if discussing the weather. Dr. Evander called it a clerical error. Seems I’m going to live a long, long life after all. Isabella’s eyes darted between Raiden and me, understanding beginning to dawn on her perfectly contoured face. Wait, you knew she was sick and you Oh, God.

Raiden, what did we do? What they did? Let me paint you that picture. 6 months ago, when Dr. Evander first delivered what we thought was my death sentence, Raiden held me while I cried. He promised to make my remaining time beautiful. He suggested we renovate our old Victorian house, the one we had bought as newlyweds, but never had the money to fix up properly.

“Let’s make it perfect,” he had said, stroking my hair as tears soaked through his shirt. “Our dream home, something beautiful for your last months.” I threw myself into the project with the desperate energy of someone racing against time. I learned carpentry and plumbing and electrical work. I painted and sanded and hammered until my hands bled.

I worked 16-hour days, determined to create something magnificent before I left this world. And all the while, Raiden worked late. He traveled for business more frequently. He became distant, distracted. I told myself he was grieving, processing the loss of our future together. I made excuses for his absence, his coldness, his sudden disinterest in the home we were creating. I was dying after all.

Of course, he was struggling. What I didn’t know was that he had already mentally moved on, that he had found Isabella 3 months into my diagnosis, that he had been planning our entire future, a future that conveniently didn’t include me. Isabella worked at the interior design firm where Raiden’s company was renovating their offices.

26 years old, fresh out of design school with long legs and bigger dreams than his dying wife could offer. He told her I had 6 months to live. He showed her pictures of the house I was renovating, the house that would be theirs once nature took its course. He probably painted himself as the devoted husband, caring for his terminally ill wife while bravely facing an uncertain future.

Meanwhile, I was picking out coffin handles and writing letters to my family, all while creating a masterpiece with my own dying hands. The bitter irony was exquisite. Marsha Raiden started finding his voice again. I can explain. Oh, please do, I said, settling onto one of the bar stools at the kitchen island I had built.

This should be fascinating. He ran a hand through his graying hair, the same nervous gesture he had used when I caught him cheating on his college entrance exams 15 years ago. I should have paid attention to that red flag. When we thought you were, when the doctor said, he couldn’t seem to finish a sentence, I was devastated.

You have to believe that. But I also had to think about after about what my life would look like when you were gone. Isabella was slowly sliding down the refrigerator door, her designer dress hiking up as she sank toward the floor. “Oh god,” she kept whispering. “Oh god, so you started shopping for a replacement,” I said conversationally.

Like picking out new furniture for a room you’re about to redecorate. It wasn’t like that. Raiden protested, but his voice cracked with the lie. No. Then what was it like exactly? When did you meet Isabella here? Before or after Dr. Evander told us I had 6 months to live. The guilty flush that crept up Raiden’s neck told me everything I needed to know.

After? He said quickly. It was after. I was grieving Marca. I was lost and scared. and 3 days after Isabella whispered from her position on the floor. We met 3 days after you told me about your wife’s diagnosis. The words hit Raiden like a physical blow. His face went from white to green, and I thought for a moment he might actually vomit on my newly refinished floors. Isabella, he hissed.

Shut up. But she was past the point of listening to him. The shock of seeing me alive had broken something in her, and the truth was pouring out like water from a burst pipe. “You said she was brave,” she continued, her voice gaining strength as the full horror of the situation became clear.

You said she was working on the house to keep herself busy, to have something beautiful to leave behind. You said it was tragic how young she was, how much life she still had to live. She looked up at me from the floor, her mascara now streaking down her cheeks in black rivers. You said you needed someone to help you remember how to be happy again.

The memory of those words spoken about me to another woman while I was supposedly dying sent a fresh wave of rage through my system, but I kept my voice calm, controlled. How romantic, I said. Starcrossed lovers, kept apart by the inconvenient existence of a dying wife. Raiden was backing toward the kitchen door now, like a trapped animal looking for escape.

Marsha, I know this looks bad, but bad. I laughed and the sound was sharp enough to cut glass. Raiden, this doesn’t look bad. This looks like something else entirely. I stood up from the bar stool and both of them flinched as if I had pulled a weapon. This looks like a man who found out his wife was dying and saw an opportunity. I continued, walking slowly around the kitchen island.

This looks like a husband who encouraged his sick wife to exhaust herself, renovating their dream home, knowing he would never have to live in it with her. With each step, Raiden backed further away, but there was nowhere to go. The kitchen opened to the living room on one side and the dining room on the other, but I had positioned myself between him and both exits.

This looks like a man who let his dying wife spend their entire savings account on renovations knowing she wouldn’t be around to enjoy them, I said, my voice dropping to barely above a whisper. This looks like a man who was planning his future with another woman while holding his wife’s hand in the doctor’s office. Stop, Raiden whispered. Marsha, please stop.

But I’m just getting started, darling. I smiled and saw him shudder at the coldness in it. You see, I’ve had 3 hours to think about this. 3 hours since I left Dr. Evander office with a clean bill of health. 3 hours to remember every lie, every late night, every business trip that seemed just a little too convenient.

So even if I was to die, you wouldn’t even care about my body. I pulled my phone out of my pocket and held it up so they could see the screen. 3 hours to finally check our phone records and see all those calls to a number I didn’t recognize. Would you like to guess whose number that was? Raiden. Isabella made a small wounded sound from her position on the floor.

Three hours to log into our credit card accounts and see all those charges at restaurants I’ve never been to, hotels and cities where you supposedly had meetings alone. I continued scrolling through the evidence I had compiled. Jewelry purchases that I certainly never received. Charges at Victoria’s Secret for items that were never in my size.

Raiden’s face was now the color of old paper. Marsha, I can explain all of that. Oh, I’m sure you can, I said, stepping closer. But here’s the thing, Raiden. I don’t actually want your explanations anymore. You see, while you two were planning your beautiful future in my dream house, I was making some plans of my own. I had spent those 3 hours doing more than just gathering evidence.

I had made phone calls, lots of them. The first call was to Raiden’s boss, Mr. Edison, a man I had known for 8 years and who had sent flowers to the hospital during my illness. I told him about the miraculous recovery, about coming home early to surprise Raiden, about what I had found instead. Mr. Edison was not pleased to learn that his senior project manager had been using company time and resources to conduct an affair, especially while his wife was supposedly dying.

The business trips that had been charged to client accounts, the client dinners that were actually romantic dates, the company phone that had been used for thousands of personal calls, it all painted a picture of a man who had been stealing from his employer while his wife battled terminal illness. Richardson Construction has a zero tolerance policy for theft and fraud.

Mr. Edison had told me his voice tight with anger. Raiden will be terminated immediately and will be pursuing legal action for recovery of company funds he misused. The second call was to my lawyer Janet Orlando who had helped us write my will when I thought I was dying. She was very interested to hear about the insurance policies Raiden had taken out on my life in the past 6 months.

Policies I had never signed with signatures that looked suspiciously unlike my own. Insurance fraud is a felony, Marsha, Janet had said grimly, especially when it’s connected to a spouse’s supposed terminal illness. I’ll have investigators looking into this by tomorrow morning. The third call was to Isabella’s employer, the interior design firm, where she and Raiden had met.

I posed as a concerned friend, who had just learned that one of their employees was involved in an affair with a married man whose wife was dying of cancer. an affair that had included using company resources to plan their future home together. Well handle this internally, the office manager had assured me.

Thank you for bringing this to our attention. But the fourth call was my favorite. Raiden, I said now, watching as sweat beated on his forehead despite the air conditioning I had installed myself. Do you remember my cousin Alicia? His face went even paler. Alicia from Chicago. That’s the one. I nodded. Alicia, who works for the IRS. Alicia, who was very interested to learn about all those home improvement expenses you’ve been claiming as business deductions.

You know, the ones for the house renovation that you told the government was necessary for your home office. Raiden’s knees actually buckled and he had to grab the counter to keep from falling. Turns out claiming personal expenses as business deductions while your wife is dying is the kind of thing that really gets their attention, I continued conversationally.

especially when those expenses total more than $60,000. Isabella was now openly sobbing on my kitchen floor, her designer dress twisted around her legs and her perfect hair hanging in her face. Raiden, she gasped between sobs. You said you were divorced. You said the house was yours. You said he said a lot of things.

I interrupted gently. But here’s what he didn’t tell you, Isabella. He didn’t tell you that the house is in my name only because I inherited it from my grandmother. He didn’t tell you that every dollar spent on renovations came from my trust fund, not his salary. And he definitely didn’t tell you that even if I had died, you would have had no legal claim to any of it.

She looked up at me with mascara streaked confusion. What? The will I wrote when I thought I was dying? I smiled down at her. It leaves everything to charity. every last penny. Raiden would have gotten nothing except my grandmother’s china set and the moral obligation to pay off the credit cards he maxed out on your relationship.

The sound Raiden made was somewhere between a groan and a whale. He slumped against the kitchen counter, his perfect future crumbling around him like stale cake. You see, Isabella, I continued, you weren’t just sleeping with a married man. You were sleeping with a married man who was committing multiple felonies while counting on his wife’s death to cover his tracks.

Princess, who had been cowering behind Isabella this whole time, suddenly perked up and ran toward the front door, yapping excitedly. “Oh,” I said, checking my watch. “That must be the police.” The effect of those words was immediate and electric. Raiden straightened up as if he had been shocked, his eyes wide with panic.

Isabella scrambled to her feet, her heels clicking. frantically on the hardwood as she spun around looking for an escape route that didn’t exist. Police. Raiden croked. I’m home. I nodded, walking calmly to the front door as the doorbell rang. I called them about an hour ago. Something about strangers breaking into my house with a moving truck.

I opened the door to find two uniformed officers standing on my porch along with Detective Thaddius, whom I had met when I filed the initial report about the suspected fraud. Mrs. Raiden, Detective Thaddius said with a sympathetic smile. We got your call about the break-in. Are the intruders still inside? Oh, yes, I said stepping aside to let them in.

They’re in the kitchen, though I should probably mention. They seem to think they live here. What followed was a symphony of chaos that I will treasure for the rest of my long, healthy life. Raiden tried to explain that this was all a misunderstanding, that he lived here, that he had a right to bring his girlfriend to his own home.

But the officers were more interested in the moving truck full of belongings parked in the driveway of a house that public records showed belonged entirely to me. Isabella, meanwhile, was having what could only be described as a complete breakdown. Between her sobs, she kept wailing about how Raiden had lied to her, how she thought I was dead, how she never would have moved in if she had known I was alive.

“Ma’am,” Officer Johnson said patiently, “did you know this was Mrs. Raiden’s house when you moved your belongings in.” He said it was his house. Isabella wailed. He said his wife died and left it to him. He showed me the pictures. He gave me keys. He said we were going to start our new life together.

Detective Thaddius raised an eyebrow. So you were aware that Mr. Raiden had been married to Mrs. Raiden. She was supposed to be dead. Isabella shrieked, pointing at me accusingly. He said she had cancer and died 3 months ago. Ma’am, Detective Thaddius said carefully. Mrs. Raiden is clearly not dead. She’s standing right there. The absurdity of the situation would have been funny if it weren’t so pathetically tragic.

While the officers sorted out the immediate situation, Isabella’s belongings would need to be removed from my house immediately, Raiden would be escorted off the property and served with a restraining order pending the fraud investigation. I found myself oddly calm. I had spent 6 months believing I was dying, pouring every ounce of my energy into creating something beautiful before I left this world.

The house around us was a testament to what a person could accomplish when they believed their time was limited. Every room told a story of desperate love and determined hope. The living room where I had installed built-in bookshelves, imagining Raiden reading by the fireplace after I was gone. the master bedroom where I had painted a mural on the ceiling, thinking it would be something beautiful for him to look at during the lonely nights ahead.

I had literally built this house to be a monument to our love, a final gift from a dying wife to her grieving husband. Instead, I had unknowingly built the perfect trap. “Marsha,” Raiden said as the officers prepared to escort him out. His voice was broken, desperate. “I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry. I never meant for any of this to happen. I looked at him intently for the first time in months.

The man I had loved for 12 years. The man I had married in a tiny ceremony in my grandmother’s backyard. The man I had been willing to die loving. You’re sorry, I repeated slowly. You’re sorry that you got caught. No. He shook his head frantically. I’m sorry for all of it. For Isabella, for the lies, for the money, for everything.

Marsha, I love you. I’ve always loved you. I was just I was scared and stupid. Anne, you were planning my funeral while I was still alive. Raiden, I said quietly. You were picking out coffins with one hand and wedding rings with the other. You don’t get to call that love. Officer Johnson cleared his throat.

Ma’am, we need to finish processing the scene. Mr. Raiden, you need to come with us. As they led Raiden away in handcuffs, he kept looking back at me with desperate eyes, as if there was something left to salvage from the wreckage of our marriage. Isabella was still crying as the movers, clearly confused and uncomfortable with the situation, began loading her belongings back into the truck.

Princess had finally stopped barking and was now hiding under the kitchen table, overwhelmed by all the chaos. “Mrs. Raiden,” Detective Thaddius said as the house began to empty. “I have to ask, how did you know to come home early today?” I smiled, thinking of the phone call from Dr. Evander’s office that had changed everything.

Let’s just say I had a miraculous recovery. As the sun began to set, I found myself alone in the house I had built with my own hands. The house that was supposed to be my monument, my legacy, my final gift to a man who had never deserved it. I walked through each room, seeing it with new eyes.

The crown molding that had taken me weeks to install perfectly wasn’t a tribute to our love. It was evidence of my strength. The hardwood floors I had refinished on my knees weren’t a dying woman’s desperate project. They were the foundation of my new life. In the master bedroom, I stopped in front of the full-length mirror I had installed on the closet door.

The woman looking back at me was different from the one who had left for the doctor’s office that morning. She was still 34 years old, still had paint under her fingernails, still had calluses on her palms from months of manual labor. But she wasn’t dying anymore and she wasn’t married anymore either. She was free. My phone rang and I saw Kate’s name on the screen.

Marsha, she gasped as soon as I answered. Thank God. I’ve been trying to reach you all day. Did you get the message about the test results? Are you okay? Where are you? I’m home, I said, looking around the beautiful space I had created. I’m in my house and I’m perfectly fine. Your house? Marca? What about Raiden? Have you told him about the mixup? He must be so relieved. Kate, I interrupted gently.

Sit down. I have quite a story to tell you. As I told my sister about the events of the day, I found myself laughing at the sheer absurdity of it all. 6 months of believing I was dying. 6 months of backbreaking work to create something beautiful. 6 months of marriage to a man who was secretly counting down the days until he could cash in on my death.

Marsha, Kate said when I finished, her voice filled with horror and rage. I’m coming over right now. You shouldn’t be alone tonight. Actually, I said, walking out onto the front porch that Raiden had spun Isabella around on just hours earlier. I think being alone is exactly what I need right now.

The evening air was warm and sweet, carrying the scent of the jasmine I had planted around the porch when I thought I would never see it bloom. Now I would see it bloom every year for decades to come. My phone buzzed with a text message from Janet, my lawyer. Raiden’s bail hearing is set for tomorrow morning. I’ll have divorce papers ready by end of week.

Also, the insurance investigation found evidence of forged signatures. He’s looking at serious prison time. Another text came in. This one from Alicia at the IRS. Audit begins Monday. Based on what you sent me, he’ll owe at least $30,000 in back taxes plus penalties. And that’s just the beginning. A third text from Mr. Edison.

Raiden’s been terminated effective immediately. Company pressing charges for theft. Thank you for bringing this to our attention. I put the phone away and sat down on the porch swing I had hung myself using YouTube tutorials and determination when Raiden claimed he was too busy to help. The swing faced west toward the sunset, and I rocked gently as the sky turned brilliant shades of orange and pink.

Tomorrow I would start my new life. I would wake up in the house I built, in the bed I chose, surrounded by the beauty I created with my own hands. I would drink coffee from the kitchen I designed, take a shower in the bathroom I renovated, and walk on the floors I refinished. And Raiden would wake up in a jail cell facing fraud charges, insurance investigation, IRS audit, unemployment, and divorce proceedings that would leave him with nothing but legal bills and regret.

The poetic justice was almost too perfect to believe. As the last light faded from the sky, I made myself a promise. I would never again build my life around the fear of losing it. I would never again pour my energy into creating something beautiful for someone else to enjoy. This house, this magnificent house I had built with my dying hands would be mine alone.

Every room I had renovated while racing against time. Every detail I had perfected while believing I was terminal. Every beautiful thing I had created out of love and desperation, all of it belonged to me now. I was 34 years old. I was healthy. I was free. And I was sitting in a house worth half a million dollars that I owned entirely debt-free.

While the man who had tried to steal it from me faced the consequences of his betrayal. The house I built to be my monument had become something even better. It had become my fortress, my sanctuary, my new beginning. I pulled out my phone one more time and opened a new text message to Dr. Evander. Thank you for the mixup.

It saved my life in more ways than one. Then I went inside, locked the door that Raiden would never have keys to again, and began planning the rest of my long, beautiful, healthy life. In the morning, I would call a contractor about installing a security system. Not because I was afraid, but because I had something worth protecting now, myself.

The house around me settled into comfortable silence. the sound of a home that was finally truly mine. Outside, the jasmine bloomed in the darkness, filling the air with sweetness I was no longer dying to smell. I had built this house with my own hands, believing it would be my legacy. Instead, it had become my rebirth. And that was a much better story than the one Raiden had been writing for me.

I smiled in the darkness of my beautiful, perfect, revenge-built home. And for the first time in six months, I slept peacefully.