The double front doors of the house were flung wide, letting out the faint smells of cold cardboard, damp plaster, and stale peppermint tea.

Daniel rubbed the back of his neck, his knuckles red from the bitter wind blowing straight off Lake Michigan.

“You don’t have to empty the whole upstairs today,” he said, his voice flat under the rumble of the idling truck engines.

“The court agreement gives me thirty days to take out my premarital property,” I said.

“I’m only taking what was mine before the wedding.”

“That desk in the hall was a present from my uncle,” he said.