For 14 years, I saved every penny to buy my dream house. It wasn’t easy—there were nights I skipped meals just to put money aside. At 32, finally holding the keys felt like the greatest victory of my life. I called my girlfriend, Betty, and invited her to celebrate with cake and flowers.

When I opened the door, I froze. Betty sat on the couch with her mother, sister, and a lawyer. Suitcases were lined against the wall. The lawyer handed me papers, and Betty explained they were deed transfer documents to add her name to the house. Her family pushed me, saying if I truly loved her, I’d sign without hesitation. Shaken, I picked up the pen.

The moment I touched the page, the room erupted in laughter. Betty’s family and friends pulled out their phones, recording everything. The documents were fake. It was all an elaborate “prank.” They cheered, saying it proved my love for Betty. But inside, I felt hollow. My dream, something I’d worked toward for over a decade, had been turned into a joke.

For weeks, Betty retold the prank at parties, always getting laughs. I forced a smile, but deep down, I couldn’t shake the sting of humiliation. Still, I loved her, and despite everything, I stayed. A month later, while walking along the beach, I surprised her for real—dropping to one knee with a ring in hand.

Betty cried and laughed at the same time, saying yes instantly. That prank nearly broke me, but it also revealed something: I was willing to risk everything for her.

Next spring, we’ll marry in the backyard of our Everwood Lane home—still only in my name. Some commitments take time, and some jokes are only funny once.