“No,” I said. “You can go home. I’m going to the house to meet the locksmith.”
He blinked. “The what?”
“The locksmith. Your code is being changed tonight. Your personal belongings are boxed in the garage. My attorney emailed yours this morning. And before you ask, yes, the house is legally protected until division is settled.”
For the first time since he saw me, Daniel looked genuinely afraid.
Then his phone buzzed. He checked it, and whatever he read made his shoulders sink.
“My office,” he said.
I nodded once. “They received the same financial documents. Fraud investigations tend to move quickly.”
And right there in the middle of Terminal B, Daniel realized that losing me was only the beginning.
I left him standing there and walked out into the crisp evening air, rolling my suitcase behind me like the final punctuation of a sentence. My heart was racing, but not from grief. Grief had already done its work in quiet fragments: through unanswered calls, holidays spent alone, and the painful realization that I had been more faithful to the marriage than the marriage had ever been to me. What I felt now was something clearer. Relief, perhaps. Or justice.
The locksmith was already at the house when I arrived. He was a polite older man named Ron who asked no questions, only confirmed my ID and got to work. Inside, the living room looked almost unchanged, yet now I noticed all the traces of Daniel more sharply: his shoes by the stairs, his whiskey glasses in the sink, his expensive jacket draped over a dining chair like someone else had been living there too. Melissa’s scarf still lay on the couch. I picked it up with two fingers and dropped it into one of the boxes labeled Daniel.
