The Price of Protection
My name is Lily Morgan. I’m thirty-three years old, and I’m a corporate real estate attorney in Denver. That condo Samuel wanted his name on?
I bought it at twenty-seven with money saved from three brutal years at a law firm that didn’t think women belonged in commercial real estate.
The Range Rover he wanted transferred? I paid thirty-eight thousand dollars cash at thirty-one.
The savings account he wanted access to? Six figures that took a decade to build—every vacation I didn’t take, every dinner I skipped, every weekend I worked while my friends were living their lives.
I learned about financial independence from my mother, though not the way most people learn things from their parents.
I learned it from watching what happens when you don’t have it. My mother died when I was twenty-five, right before I passed the bar exam. Ovarian cancer that showed no mercy.
In those final weeks, she grabbed my hand and said something I’ve never forgotten: “Lily, wealth isn’t about what you earn.
It’s about what you keep and what you protect. Don’t ever let anyone make you feel guilty for building something solid.
And don’t ever give someone else control over what you’ve built.”
She was talking about my father, though she didn’t say his name. He’d left when I was twelve, and my mother discovered she had nothing in her own name.
No credit cards.
No savings account. No property. At forty-two, she had to start completely from scratch.
She rebuilt herself, got her real estate license, worked two jobs, eventually became successful.
But she never forgot what those early years felt like—the vulnerability, the powerlessness, the sick feeling of realizing you’d trusted someone with everything and they’d left you with nothing. When I bought my condo at twenty-seven, I was honoring her.
For the next four years, I lived like a college student in that beautiful space. Cheap furniture, no vacations, cooking every night.
Every raise, every bonus, every tax refund went straight toward that mortgage principal.
When I made that final payment at thirty-one, I sat alone and cried. Relief tears. Freedom tears.
That condo was mine.
Completely, totally mine. Then I bought the Range Rover—used, but I paid the full thirty-eight thousand in cash.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
TAP → NEXT PAGE → 👇
