At 10:14 on a bright Saturday morning, I looked down at my phone and saw my ex-husband carrying a flat-screen television into a house he had absolutely no right to enter.

Behind him was his new wife.

She was carrying a brass floor lamp.

My brass floor lamp.

I was four hours away, standing barefoot in my sister Rachel’s kitchen in Louisville with a mug of coffee halfway to my mouth.

For several seconds, my brain refused to understand what I was seeing.

Maybe I had opened the wrong camera.

Maybe the feed was delayed.

Maybe I was somehow looking at someone else’s property.

But I wasn’t.

The house was mine.

I had owned it for exactly eleven days.

It was a modest three-bedroom brick home in Worthington, just north of Columbus.

Nothing extravagant.

An old maple tree in front.

Oak cabinets straight out of the 1980s.

Floors that needed refinishing.