That night, when I returned home, the house was dark. Greg’s car was gone, likely off to rescue Ashley or to find a hotel where he could process the math of his new reality. I walked through the quiet rooms, noting the things I had bought, the art I had hung, and the life I had curated. It was a beautiful house, but it was finally going to be a home again—one where the person at the head of the table didn’t have to pay for the right to be heard.

I went upstairs, climbed into bed, and slept the deep, uninterrupted sleep of a woman who had finally balanced the books.