Because the house was mine. Completely mine. No mortgage. No joint ownership. Daniel’s name wasn’t on it. And two months earlier, before any of this happened, I had made a change to my estate plan that neither of them knew about.
The following evening, at exactly 6:30, the doorbell rang. Three times.
Melissa looked toward the hallway. I took four wineglasses from the cabinet. “My friends are here.”
For the next hour and a half, we ate roast chicken, shared stories, and laughed harder than we had in months.
At 8:05, Melissa appeared in the dining room doorway. Arms crossed. Jaw tight. “You need to wrap this up. Quiet hours started five minutes ago.”
My friends stopped talking. Daniel stood behind her. Silent again.
I placed my napkin beside my plate and walked to the sideboard. Inside the drawer was the sealed envelope I had put there before dinner.
I carried it back to Melissa. She looked at it, then at me. “What is this?”
I smiled and held it out. “You’re right,” I said. “Someone needs to start packing.”
Her confidence disappeared just enough for me to notice.