“Leaving.”
He laughed. “Over oatmeal?”
“No. Over six years.”
His expression hardened. “This is my house too. You can’t just walk out because Mom needs help.”
I zipped the suitcase. “Interesting choice of words.”
He didn’t understand.
What Daniel had forgotten—or perhaps had never fully understood—was that the house had belonged to me before we ever married. My late aunt had left it to me free and clear. Daniel’s name had never been added to the deed.
And the consulting company he proudly claimed to have “built with his own hands”? I had quietly funded its first two years through a separate inheritance account. Every transfer was documented. So were the personal expenses he had recently begun putting on the company.
I carried my suitcase downstairs.
Lorraine stood beside the stove. “You’ll come crawling back.”
I opened the front door.
“Maybe,” I said. “But before I do, you should both learn where the oatmeal is.”…
