When Everett Langston asked me to become his wife, I was thirty-six, worn out, almost completely out of savings, and raising my ten-year-old daughter on my own.
He was seventy-four.
He owned a beautiful house outside Raleigh, North Carolina, had more money than he could possibly spend, and had been living alone since his wife passed away several years before.
Everyone who eventually learned about our marriage reached the same conclusion.
They assumed I had married an older wealthy man because I wanted his money.
The reality was far more complicated.
One afternoon, Everett sat across from me at the kitchen table and said something I would never forget.
“Marry me, move into this house with your daughter, and I’ll make sure she has everything she needs. But understand something, Laurel. I’m not looking for romance. I’m looking for a family.”
I looked at him, certain there had to be some catch.
