After my divorce, I bought a house and told no one. While I was out of state, my cameras showed a moving truck in my driveway. Then I saw my ex-husband and his new wife carrying their furniture inside. I didn’t call him. I called the police.

The driver’s door opened.

Mark stepped out.

Rachel leaned over the kitchen island.

“You expecting the flooring guys?”

“Maybe.”

Then I saw him clearly.

Rachel came around the counter.

“Is that Mark?”

“Yes.”

“What is he doing at your house?”

“I was hoping you knew.”

Then the passenger door opened.

Vanessa climbed out.

Mark had married her five months after our divorce became official.

I had met her twice.

I had stopped asking questions about when their relationship had actually started.

He was no longer my problem.

At least, that was what I had been telling myself.

Then Mark handed Vanessa a tall brass lamp.

A lamp I recognized from his old apartment.

He pulled a huge television from the back of the truck.

More boxes followed.

KITCHEN.

BOOKS.

Then one enormous carton labeled:

MASTER BEDROOM.

Rachel stared at the screen.

“They’re moving in.”

“I can see that.”