Two days after Grandma’s funeral, I was still in her kitchen. Then my brother texted: “”We’re in the Maldives. We can’t access Grandma’s account.”” I said nothing. Good thing I moved Grandma’s $235,000. He panicked when…

There were seventeen recordings in total. Seventeen moments in which they spoke about me like I was an object with an expiration date.

I copied them all onto the flash drive and saved another copy to my email.

Then I pulled out my old phone, the one Daniel had replaced for me when he wanted me “to use apps more easily.” I had never thrown it away. On it were photographs I had taken over the past months.

Receipts Emily had tossed into the trash.

Screenshots of her posts bragging about “my house,” “my remodel,” “my beautiful kitchen,” “my achievements.”

Never our house.

Never thank you.

I transferred all of it to the same drive.

By then it was nearly eleven. I looked at the darkened living room and walked through it slowly. The sofa I bought. The coffee table I bought. The bookshelf I bought. The television I bought.

I was not going to strip that house bare. I was not leaving like a thief. I was taking only what was indisputably mine: my clothes, my memories, my dignity, and the documents.

I closed the suitcase and sat on the edge of the bed with a sheet of paper and a pen.

I needed to leave Daniel something.

I wrote in clear, steady handwriting.

Daniel,