She wrinkled her nose at the abandoned living room. “Ugh, it smells like old people and hospital bleach. You promised we could gut the whole thing. I want this kitchen knocked down.”

“Whatever you want, sweetheart,” Mark cooed, slapping the light switch.

I watched his face curdle as the bulbs flickered on and he registered the absence — my coats, my shoes, the medical bed, the entire shape of my life, gone.

He stormed into the dining room.

There, in the exact center of the table, sat the divorce petition, weighed down by my platinum ring.

Beside it, a photocopy of the passbook showing the half-million balance — and stamped across it in red: ACCOUNT FROZEN — BENEFICIARY TRANSFER PENDING.