I was still reeling from the news that my great-aunt had left me her estate when my husband handed me divorce papers. Then I found out he was suing me for half of everything, including my inheritance! Weeks later, he got what he wanted, and my laughter echoed through the courtroom.

I drove home from the lawyer’s office in a daze.

My great-aunt Lila had passed away recently and, to my surprise, had left me her estate.

Three stories of limestone and ivy-covered brick from the late 1800s, it was the kind of place with wrought-iron gates, sweeping staircases, and fireplaces in every room. It had once hosted charity galas, garden tours, and even a magazine shoot in the 80s.

I entered my home and called for Nathan, my husband. His reply led me to the living room, where he was watching a documentary.

I flopped down beside him on the couch.

His hand found my back, rubbing small circles between my shoulder blades.

“So, your text said that she left you the estate?”

I leaned into him.

Nathan stood. He walked away, and I thought maybe he was going to make tea, but he came back with a folder instead.

“I’m sorry about the timing,” he said. “But there’s no point in putting it off much longer.”

I took the folder.

Inside were divorce papers.

You know that feeling when you’re in an elevator and it drops too fast and your stomach lurches into your throat? That’s what this was, except the elevator was my entire existence, and it wasn’t stopping.

“You’ll be better off.” His voice was steady. “I’ve been unhappy for a long time, Miranda.

You know that.”

Did I? I replayed our last few months like a film reel in my head. Sure, we’d been distant, but unhappy?

Divorce level unhappy?

I looked up at him; his solemn expression blurred through my tears.

“You can stay a few days,” he said. “I’m not going to kick you out tonight.

I’m not a monster.”

The word “home” suddenly felt foreign in my mouth. This place, with its greige walls, reclaimed wood furniture, and collection of wedding photos in the hallway… not “ours” anymore, but “his.”

I couldn’t stay. I packed a bag in a daze and drove away, following muscle memory and instinct until I pulled up in front of Tessa’s apartment building at one in the morning.

“I don’t understand,” I kept saying, curled up on her couch with a blanket that smelled like lavender detergent.