Three weeks later, my attorney called.

Mark had backed down.

He reimbursed the $2,740.

He dropped his threat to challenge the divorce settlement.

No courtroom drama.

No judge.

Just paperwork.

Dates had defeated the lies.

Six weeks later, I finally moved into my house.

I hired movers with a plain white truck because I had developed a completely irrational dislike of yellow moving vans.

Rachel helped unpack.

At one point, she heard me say,

“My house.”

Then she stopped.

“Say that again.”

I looked around.

The floors were repaired.

The walls were painted.

The locks belonged only to me.

Every shared digital account was gone.

“My house.”

And for the first time, it truly felt like it.

The anxiety didn’t disappear immediately.

Every camera notification made my heart jump.

Every unfamiliar car slowed me down.