I came home from my mother-in-law’s funeral still dressed in black… and found my husband, his sister, and a lawyer waiting with a will that erased ten years of my life in a single sentence. He got the house. I got 48 hours to disappear.

Panic.
Something.Nothing came.

I took off my shoes and lined them up neatly by the wall, a habit that refused to leave me even now.

I placed my bag on the chair and opened it slowly.

Everything I owned fit inside.

A change of clothes.

Toiletries.

A few papers I hadn’t had the heart to throw away.

And at the bottom, still sealed, the envelope Margaret had given me.

I didn’t touch it.

I closed the bag and pushed it under the bed, as if putting distance between myself and the only unknown left might make the night easier.

I turned off the light and lay down fully dressed, staring at the ceiling while the heater clanged and the sound of cars rushing past on the highway seeped through the walls.

The first night passed without sleep.

Every time I closed my eyes, my mind replayed the living room scene in fragments.

Ryan’s voice.

Lisa’s smile.

The word eviction.

I wasn’t angry in the way people expect anger to look.

There was no fire, no urge to call anyone and demand answers.

What I felt instead was hollow, as if something essential had been scooped out of me and taken away.

Ten years had ended with a sentence, and there was nothing left to argue with.

In the morning, I counted the money.