By Wednesday night, the house was immaculate. It smelled like bleach and fresh flowers. There wasn’t a single trace of Mark left inside the walls. I made myself a cup of tea, sat on the couch, and waited for Thursday.

At 11:15 a.m. on Thursday, a large SUV pulled into my driveway. I watched through the sheer curtains of the living room window. I expected Mark to stumble out of a taxi alone, maybe looking for a fight, maybe looking to quietly pack a suitcase. I did not expect the clown car that actually emptied onto my driveway.

First came Mark, looking tanned and incredibly smug. Then came his mother, a woman who had spent the last decade making passive-aggressive comments about my cooking and my inability to give her grandchildren. Following closely behind was Mark’s younger sister, holding her smartphone up horizontally, clearly recording the entire approach. And finally, stepping nervously out of the passenger side, was a younger woman I immediately recognized from Mark’s office holiday parties. Melanie.

Mark marched up the porch steps with the unearned confidence of a man who thought he held all the cards. I stood quietly just out of sight as I heard his key scrape against the new metal of the deadbolt. It wouldn’t turn. He jiggled it. He cursed under his breath. He tried another key. Nothing.

“Jessica!” he barked, pounding a heavy fist against the wood. “Open the damn door!”

I took a deep breath, unlocked the deadbolt from the inside, and swung the door wide open. I didn’t step aside. I stood dead center in the doorway, blocking the entrance entirely.

Mark immediately puffed out his chest. “What is wrong with the lock? Listen, I don’t have time for your childish games today. We need to go inside and talk about the transition.”

“There is no transition, Mark,” I said, my voice eerily steady. “And there is no ‘we.’ You don’t live here anymore.”

His mother pushed her way to the front, her face red with instant fury. “How dare you speak to my son that way! You lazy, ungrateful woman. He works himself to the bone to provide this beautiful house for you, and you think you can just lock him out? He has every right to bring his new wife into his own home!”

I glanced at the sister, who was practically vibrating with excitement, ensuring the camera lens was pointed right at my face. She was clearly hoping for a screaming, hysterical, viral-worthy meltdown from the scorned older wife. I refused to give it to her.

Instead, I looked directly at Melanie. She was hovering near the back of the porch, looking incredibly uncomfortable. She was clutching a designer handbag that I recognized—because Mark had bought it using my Amazon Prime account two weeks prior.

“Melanie,” I said calmly. “Did Mark tell you this was his house?”