With all the evidence neatly bound in a folder, my attorney filed the divorce papers. I requested to be the one to serve him, but I wanted to do it my way.

I waited for a Tuesday.

His favorite day. The day he picked up his dry cleaning with his “wife.” As soon as his car pulled out of the driveway that morning, I called a locksmith.

By 10:00 AM, every lock on the house was changed. I packed a single bag for him. I took his two real suits—the navy one and the charcoal one—and placed them neatly in their garment bags.

I set the bags on the front porch, right next to the new welcome mat. I taped the $47 dry cleaning receipt to the front door, right above the deadbolt. Inside the envelope with the receipt were the divorce papers, the forensic accountant’s summary highlighting the $87,000, and a copy of the utility bill with her name on it.

I didn’t stick around to watch him come home. I went to a hotel, poured myself a very large glass of wine, and turned my phone off. I didn’t need to hear his excuses. I didn’t need to hear the panic in his voice when his key wouldn’t turn. The $47 receipt had told me absolutely everything I needed to know.