The next morning, I arrived at the rehabilitation center as I always did, helping him into the transport van with a smile. I took him to his session, kissed his forehead, and whispered, “I’ll be back to pick you up in two hours, darling…”
He smirked. “Don’t be late. I have guests tonight.”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to. As soon as the van drove away, I went to the bank, transferred the funds to a secure account, and directed my lawyer to file the motion. By the time he rolled back into his driveway, the house was silent. The moving truck had come and gone. The walls were bare. The liquor cabinet was empty. In the center of the living room, on the very table where he liked to dictate his demands, sat a single envelope.
Inside was the divorce petition, a notarized copy of his financial records showing the theft of our joint assets for his personal gain, and a formal notification of a lawsuit for five years of unpaid nursing and domestic services. There was also a note in my handwriting. It was short.
“The soup is cold, Esteban. And so is the service. You wanted a free nurse? You should have checked the market rate before you laughed.”
