PART 1: THE DIVORCE PAPERS
I was trembling beneath two sweaters, my temperature at 40°C, when Ethan struck me because dinner was not waiting on the table.
The impact blurred my vision, and I grabbed the kitchen counter to keep from falling. Ethan did not ask whether I was all right. He only stared at the empty plates as though I had committed some terrible offense.
“The doctor told me to stay in bed,” I whispered.
He glanced at the thermometer beside my medicine, then swept it onto the floor.
“I work all day, Claire. The least you can do is cook.”
His mother, Patricia, sat at the table in a silk robe, tapping her polished fingernails against an empty plate.
“I warned you she was lazy,” she said. “What good is a wife who cannot even prepare dinner?”
Every joint in my body ached. I could barely stand, yet neither of them offered me water, medicine, or help.
Instead, Ethan opened his briefcase and threw a folder onto the counter.
“Sign it.”
Inside were divorce papers.
He had already written the settlement terms. I was expected to leave with only my clothes, give up my claim to our savings, and surrender any interest in the house.
Patricia smiled with satisfaction.
“Ethan finally found the courage to get rid of you.”
I slowly read every page.
Before marrying Ethan, I had worked for eight years as a commercial property attorney. I had left my firm only because his father became seriously ill and needed full-time care.
Ethan had mistaken my sacrifice for weakness.
What he did not know was that three weeks earlier, a hotel confirmation intended for his mistress had appeared on our shared tablet.
What Patricia did not know was that I had already saved copies of every suspicious bank transfer, every cruel message, and every recording from the house’s security cameras.
Most importantly, neither of them knew who actually owned the property.
I picked up Ethan’s pen.
His smile widened.
“That’s right. Don’t make this difficult.”
I crossed out the unlawful financial waiver, initialed the correction, and signed only the acknowledgment confirming that I had received the papers.
Ethan barely looked at what I had changed.
Patricia laughed as I pulled on my coat.
“Where will you go?” she asked. “Your parents are gone, you abandoned your career, and you have nothing.”
My fingers trembled as I zipped my coat.
“If you walk out that door,” she continued, “you’ll end up begging on the streets.”
I looked directly into her eyes.
“I won’t be the one without a home,” I said. “You will—because this house belongs to me, and your eviction starts now.”
For the first time that evening, Patricia stopped smiling.
