Now I knew why they wanted me to sign.

They wanted to take my apartment.

I did not confront him that day. I needed to be smart.

At noon, I met my friend Paige at a coffee shop in Midtown.

Paige is a family lawyer, and she does not take excuses from anyone.

I showed her the screenshots. I showed her the bank receipts.

I also showed her the deeds and bank statements I had pulled from my white shoebox that morning.

Paige looked at the papers. Her jaw went tight.

“Maya, this is financial and emotional fraud,” Paige said, closing her laptop. “And they are trying to steal your home.”

“What do I do?” I asked. I felt a small kick from the baby inside me.

“Nothing yet,” Paige said. “You go home. You smile. You act like the tired, clueless pregnant wife. But you are going to cancel his authorized card on your account today.”

“He will notice,” I said.

“Let him notice when he cannot pay for Valerie’s party decorations,” Paige smiled.

I walked to Washington Square Park and sat on a bench. My hands were shaking, but I called the bank.

I canceled the card. I changed my passwords. I requested a full audit of my account for the last 12 months.

At 6:18 PM, David called. I did not answer.

Then the texts started.

“Why was the card declined?”

“Maya, answer.”

“I am in the middle of something important. Don’t throw one of your tantrums.”

I turned off my phone.

When he arrived at 8:00 PM, he was red in the face.

“Did you block the card?” he yelled from the doorway.

I was in the living room, folding a yellow onesie. I did not look up.

“Yes,” I said.

“Why?”

“Because it was in my name.”

David stopped. He looked at me, his eyes wide.

“We are married, Maya. My name is on the accounts.”

“Your name is on the authorized card,” I said, looking up. “Not the account. The money is mine.”

“You made me look like a fool in front of the vendors,” he hissed.

“What a shame,” I replied.

He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Don’t play games with me, Maya.”

“I am not playing,” I said.

He did not know what to say. He walked out and slammed the door.

Saturday morning was overcast and cold. The sky over Westchester was a flat, dull gray that promised rain.

David did not speak to me on the drive. He kept his eyes on the road, his knuckles white against the black leather steering wheel of his car.

He was still grinding his teeth about the blocked card from the night before, but he was trying to hide it.

I sat in the passenger seat, my arms crossed over my belly.

Tucked into my canvas tote bag on the floor was the white shoebox. I had taped the bank statements, the receipt, and the screenshots inside it. It felt heavy.

When we pulled up to Alice’s brick house, I felt a knot in my stomach.