For the first hour, I sat on the couch in the nursery and cried. I cried for the family I thought I was building, for the man I thought I had married, and for my daughter, who was about to be born into this mess.

But then, the tears stopped. A deep, freezing anger replaced the sadness. Diane wanted pain to teach me respect? Fine. But I wasn’t going to be the one learning the lesson. I had five days. My first call wasn’t to my mother or my friends to complain.

It was to my sister, Sarah. I told her everything. She was at my house within twenty minutes, absolutely vibrating with rage. We sat at the kitchen table and made a list. Since I was the one who managed the household finances, I knew exactly where every cent was.

The house we lived in was mine—I had bought it two years before I even met Ethan, and thankfully, my lawyer had advised me to keep the deed solely in my name. Ethan contributed to the joint account for bills, but the bulk of the savings in there were from my salary.

Step one: Protect the assets. I logged into our banking portal and transferred exactly half of the joint funds into a brand new, separate account in my name only. Then, I went a step further. I completely froze his access to the joint credit cards.

He had taken his personal debit card to Mexico, so he wouldn’t be stranded, but the limitless credit lines he planned on using to buy his mother expensive dinners and spa treatments? Gone. Step two: Secure the perimeter. I called a local locksmith. It cost me $300 for an emergency same-day visit, but by 4:00 PM, every single lock on the front, back, and garage doors had been completely replaced.

The heavy “click” of the new deadbolt sliding into place was the most satisfying sound I had ever heard. Step three: The purge. Sarah and I spent the next 48 hours methodically going through the house. We packed up Ethan’s clothes, his electronics, his golf clubs, his stupid champagne-colored luggage set, and every single thing that belonged to him.

We rented a climate-controlled storage unit down the street and hired two local college kids to move the boxes. By the end of day two, there wasn’t a single trace of Ethan left in my home, aside from his name on the marriage certificate. I was exhausted, but my adrenaline was carrying me through.

I had my lawyer draft up separation papers on day three. Everything was moving at lightning speed. And then, at 2:00 AM on day four, my water broke. I was terrified for about ten seconds. Then I remembered the image of Ethan adjusting his sunglasses in the mirror.