Five days after the divorce, my former mother-in-law stood in the doorway of the breakfast room, holding a mug of coffee in both hands as if she owned not just the kitchen but the air inside it.
She looked me over from head to toe—barefoot, wearing leggings, hair pulled back, reviewing contractor invoices at the table I had chosen and paid for—and asked in that cool, clipped tone she used whenever she wanted to sound polite while being cruel, “Why are you still here?”
The room went very still.
Outside, rain tapped against the large back windows of the Brentwood house just south of Nashville. Inside, the refrigerator hummed softly, the grandfather clock in the hallway ticked once, and my ex-husband, Trevor Hale, froze halfway down the staircase.
I smiled calmly and set my pen down.
“Because this house was paid for with my money.”
