scared.
I laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because somehow I had become the villain in a story where my husband moved his mistress and their children into my house.
By nine o’clock, I was sitting in the office of my attorney.
The same attorney who handled my mother’s estate years earlier.
Sandra listened quietly.
Never interrupting.
Never reacting.
Then I handed her the documents from the safe.
The smile disappeared from her face.
“Where did you get these?”
“From my safe.”
She opened the folder again.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Then
