“You’re a resident, Mark, not an owner. You have no equity here. Your things are packed. The documents for the garage and the loans you took out behind my back are in the blue folder in the second bag.”
Dead silence followed. For five seconds, all I could hear was Mark’s heavy breathing.
“What loans?” Eleanor squeaked, then went quiet.
“You went through my things?” Mark’s voice cracked, shifting from aggression to panic.
“I was looking for the warranty for the porcelain your mother smashed,” I lied. “Instead, I found proof that you’ve been stealing from our future for three years. The garage, your mom’s kitchen, your brother’s debt. It’s all documented, Mark. I’m filing for divorce. And since we have nothing to divide but your debts—good luck.”
“Sarah, come on. Open up. Let’s talk about this.”
His tone shifted instantly. Whining, pleading. The classic cycle. Aggression, fear, then the “honeymoon” plea.
“Mom, maybe you exaggerated? Maybe you just tripped?”
“What are you saying?” Eleanor snapped. “She broke my back!”
“Shut up, Mom,” Mark barked. “Sarah, honey, please. We both got heated. Open up, it’s freezing out here. I’m hungry.”
“No,” I said.
“Sarah, legally you can’t keep me out. I’ll call a patrol car.”
“Go ahead,” I said. “I have the video from the hallway. The security camera records audio, too. It shows your mother sitting down on an ottoman and then running out the door like a track star. And it shows you threatening to ‘make me pay’ while trying to break in. I’ll show it to the officers and file for a restraining order. You’ll lose your job, Mark. Do you really want a public record of this?”
