David stared at the paper. His face went white as a sheet.

“Maya, wait,” he stammered, reaching for the receipt.

“And these,” I continued, placing the text screenshots down, “are the messages from Valerie laughing about my face when I saw it.

The ones where she says your mom will convince me to sign the house papers.”

Alice gasped. She stared at the screenshots, her mouth open.

“David, what is this?” his uncle asked, leaning over the table.

“It’s a mistake,” David said, his voice cracking. “Valerie is just a client’s assistant. I was helping her with a loan. Maya is just being dramatic because of the pregnancy.”

“The deed is in my name, David,” I said. “And the card you used to buy her gold balloons was my card. I canceled it yesterday.”

David tried to grab my arm, but his uncle stood up and blocked him.

“Sit down, David,” his uncle said, his voice hard. “You need to leave her alone.”

Alice sat frozen, clutching her pearl necklace. Her sweet smile was completely gone.

I picked up my white shoebox, walked out of the house, and took a taxi back to Brooklyn. I did not look back.

David did not come home that night.

He sent dozens of text messages, begging for forgiveness and blaming his mother. I did not answer any of them.

On Monday, my lawyer Paige served him with divorce papers.

The divorce was messy, but Paige was relentless.

We proved that David had used my authorized card to spend over $12,000 of my money on Valerie over the last 10 months.

The court ordered David to repay every dollar. Since the apartment deed was solely in my name and purchased with my father’s settlement, David got nothing.

Alice tried to sue for visitation rights, but the judge dismissed her case immediately.

Yesterday, Paige came over to the apartment.

We sat in the kitchen. The sun was warm on the table.

We drank chamomile tea from the blue ceramic teapot with the chipped spout.

My daughter was sleeping in her crib in the corner of the room. It was a beautiful white crib, and I paid for it myself.

“He called me yesterday, Maya,” Paige said, taking a sip of tea. “He wants to settle the final fees.”

“Let him talk to you,” I said. “I have nothing to say to him.”

The white shoebox is back in the closet now.

It is empty of bills, receipts, and lies.

Now, it holds my daughter’s first yellow onesie and her tiny white socks. I look at it every morning before I start my design work.

It reminds me of the night I stopped crying and started counting.