My forensic accountant traced Ethan’s suspicious charges. They weren’t huge, and that’s precisely what made them so insulting. Expensive dinners. Golf courses. Hotels near Atlantic City. Gifts sent to supposed clients who weren’t even in our system. He hadn’t stolen enough to make the news. He’d stolen in the most mediocre and arrogant way possible: like a man convinced his wife’s success was an endless safety net.

Linda, meanwhile, busied herself calling family members.

By Friday I already knew the version she was spreading, because it came to me through Claire, Ethan’s sister, who at least had the decency to sound embarrassed.

According to Linda, I had become ambitious, fired Ethan in an emotional outburst, and left him destitute.

Claire asked in a low voice:

-That’s true?

“No,” I replied. “And I can prove every step.”

She sighed.

—I figured as much.

That weekend, Ethan went to the Connecticut house one last time while the movers were taking inventory. He saw everything: what was mine, what was his, what had been a gift. He was still hoping I would soften.

It didn’t happen.

Linda arrived twenty minutes later, wrapped in a pearl sweater and with a carefully ironed indignation. She walked up the driveway as if she still had the right to enter.

“You can’t do this to my son,” he snapped.

I turned towards her.

-I already did.

He looked at the front door.

—That’s his house.

“No,” I replied. “It was his address.”

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