At 2:47 a.m., my husband texted me from Las Vegas: he had just married his coworker, had been sleeping with her for eight months, and thought I’d be too “boring” to do anything about it. By sunrise, I had canceled every card in his wallet, changed every lock on my house, and started tearing down the life he built on my back. He thought that message would break me. It only made me efficient.

The older one cleared his throat. “Ma’am, we got a call about a domestic dispute. Your husband says you locked him out of his home.”

My husband.

The phrase landed like something rotten.

Without saying a word, I lifted my phone and held the screen toward him through the narrow opening. The Vegas message glowed in the soft morning light.

He read it once. Then leaned slightly closer and read it again.

The younger officer bit down so hard on the inside of his cheek I thought he might actually break skin trying not to react.

The older one looked up. “Is this real?”

“As far as I know,” I said. “He sent it at 2:47 this morning from Las Vegas, after apparently marrying another woman.”

The radio on the officer’s shoulder crackled, and a shrill female voice burst through in fragmented outrage. I did not need an introduction to know it was Margaret, Ethan’s mother. Her voice lived somewhere between offended grande dame and air-raid siren. Even distorted by static, it was impossible to mistake.

“Ma’am,” the officer said into the radio, already exhausted, “this is not a police matter. He married someone else. We can’t make her let him back in.”

The radio screeched again. He turned the volume down with the expression of a man who had children and therefore worshipped silence.

The younger cop shifted. “She says you stole his things.”

“I haven’t touched them,” I said. “This house was purchased before the marriage. It’s in my name. His cards were authorized-user cards, not joint ownership. He can retrieve his personal property later.”

The older officer looked past me into the entryway, maybe checking for smashed furniture or blood or any evidence this was the kind of domestic dispute police training actually prepared you for. Instead he saw what the house always looked like in the morning: umbrella stand, bench, polished table, framed prints, one of Ethan’s shoes half under the entry bench because he never put anything away unless I reminded him.

“Just don’t destroy anything,” he said. “If he wants his belongings, keep them accessible. Other than that…” He glanced at my phone again. “Given this, he has no legal right to force entry.”

“Of course,” I said.

They left shaking their heads.

I shut the door, leaned back against it, and let out a breath that felt like it came from somewhere low and old in my body.

So.

That was how the day was going to be.