We assumed it was lost.

One Tuesday I came home from a twelve-hour ICU shift wanting nothing but my bed. I unlocked the door, stepped inside, and stopped.

The apartment smelled of chemical pine. In the kitchen, every cabinet door stood open. My dishes, my spices, the mugs I’d collected for years — all of it dismantled and rearranged.

“The way you had the plates stacked was illogical, dear,” said a voice from the hallway.

Lorraine came out of my bedroom with a dust cloth in her hand. She had let herself in. She had been through my things, treating my home as an outpost of her own.

I confronted Corey the moment he walked in. I expected outrage. I expected him to defend our home.