But the lockbox wasn’t sentimental. It was practical.
Inside were copies of statements, screenshots, and a little spiral notebook where I’d recorded things that didn’t add up—because postpartum or not, I was still me. Two months earlier, I’d noticed Ethan’s paycheck hitting our joint account and draining out again in strange chunks. “Work stuff,” he’d said. “Tools. Travel.” Except he didn’t travel. And he hadn’t bought tools since our wedding.
I’d started taking pictures of everything, saving emails, noting dates. I didn’t even know why at first. Maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was the last thread of self-respect I refused to cut.
I sat on the bed, opened the notebook, and flipped to the page labeled MADISON in block letters. A name I’d seen in his Venmo history with a stupid little emoji beside it. A name that was now standing in my house.
In the living room, Ethan laughed. Actually laughed. Like this was a relief. Like I was a chore he’d finally dropped off at the curb.
