“Stop talking.”
The words sliced through me.
“When you get home, pack your things. You have two hours from the moment you walk through the door.”
I couldn’t speak.
“The house is mine,” he said. “I bought it before we got married. My name is on the deed. The divorce papers are on the kitchen counter. Sign them, leave your keys, and be gone before dinner.”
Before I could answer, I heard a woman laughing in the background.
Too close.
Too comfortable.
“Ryan,” I whispered. “We’re married. We’re family.”
“Not for long.”
Then the call ended.
I stood frozen in the hallway, still holding the phone, while the life I had spent eight years protecting collapsed in three minutes.
The drive home was a blur. When I pulled into the driveway, the house looked exactly the same. The blue shutters I had painted myself. The hydrangeas I had planted. The porch swing where Ryan and I used to drink coffee on Sunday mornings.
