That night, I sleep in my son’s room, curled up on the floor next to his twin bed while Jack snores beside his parents in the king-size bed I paid for.
By morning, I’ve made a decision.
I start smiling.
I make breakfast — eggs and toast — and serve them all cheerfully. I kiss Jack on the cheek and say, ‘Take your time with your job search, honey. I’ll cover the mortgage again this month.’ He grunts in response, not even looking up from his phone.
That afternoon, I visit a locksmith.
The next day, I “accidentally” call a real estate agent while Jack’s mom is in the room. Loud enough for her to hear. I ask questions about property values in the area, staging tips, and if an open house on short notice is a good idea.
By the third day, Jack’s mother is watching me like a hawk.
But it’s too late.
Because behind the scenes, I’ve moved money. I’ve called a lawyer. And I’ve remembered one very important thing: my name is the only one on the deed.
By the fifth day, a photographer shows up to take pictures of the house. Jack’s dad answers the door in a bathrobe, confused and grumpy. The photographer just smiles and says, ‘Sorry, here to shoot the listing!’
I tilt my head innocently. ‘Didn’t Jack tell you? We’re selling.’
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