Gloria, the attorney, read Ethan’s 2 a.m. messages like they were X-rays, locating every fracture he’d never noticed he’d left in writing. “You want him out,” she said. “I want him to feel it,” I answered, surprising us both with how steady my voice was. Within forty-eight hours, we’d filed for divorce and secured an emergency order granting me exclusive use of the property—my property, my father’s signature echoing through every clause. Ethan’s own text, I hate old things, now sat stapled to a motion as Exhibit A, his contempt turned into a legal crowbar. While he posed on a beach, ring glinting beside Sienna’s manicured hand, I hired Roy, the house mover, who walked my creaking rooms and said, “We can take it. All of it.” The week Ethan toasted his “new life” under imported flowers, my life rose on steel beams at dawn, the porch light swinging once in farewell as the entire house lifted from its foundations and rolled away, leaving behind nothing but scraped earth and a rectang… Continues…