“Then prove it.”
That was the worst part.
Not the lie.
Not even the arrogance.
But how easily he tried to rewrite reality—like he truly believed I’d accept it.
I didn’t sleep that night.
I lay staring at the ceiling, replaying everything I had ignored:
How I credited him in my story.
How I softened my achievements to include him.
How I adjusted facts so he wouldn’t feel small.
It had all happened gradually.
So gradually I hadn’t noticed.
Until the moment he claimed my house as his.
The next morning, he left early.
“I’m picking up my parents and Mariana,” he said. “Figure out how this is going to work before I get back.”
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