Through the trees I could see the glow of string lights across my backyard.

The rhythmic thump of expensive jazz floated on the air, mingling with clinking champagne glasses and the braying laughter of men in linen suits.

I stepped out of the car. Gone was the exhausted mother’s uniform of yoga pants and oversized shirts.

I wore a tailored black dress that fit like armor, dark Louboutin heels that clicked sharply on the pavement, and a deep red lipstick that made me look like a stranger.

In my purse were the eviction papers. Beside me walked Mr. Meyers, carrying a leather briefcase, flanked by two towering men in dark suits — private security.

We walked up the driveway, past a line of luxury cars, and I stopped at the front door. It stood slightly ajar, air conditioning spilling out into the warm night.