… trash bags. Dozens of heavy duty black trash bags. And standing right next to Mark, clinging to his arm like a vine, was Sarah—his high school sweetheart, the “one who got away” according to his mother.
The silence was deafening, broken only by the sound of packing tape screeching from the roll in my mother-in-law’s hand. She was the first to speak, not even looking guilty. She just looked annoyed, like I was a stain she’d missed while cleaning.
“You have terrible timing, dear,” she said, smoothing her skirt. “We needed another two hours.”
I looked at Mark. My husband. The man I had worked two jobs for so he could finish his certification. The man whose tears I wiped when he wanted to quit. He couldn’t even meet my eyes. He was staring at the floorboards.
“Mark?” I whispered. “What is this?”
“It’s… it’s complicated,” Mark mumbled, shifting his weight.
“It’s not complicated at all,” his father boomed, stepping forward with a stack of papers. “Mark is a Vice President now. He has an image to maintain. A future. And frankly, you don’t fit the picture anymore. Sarah does. She comes from a good family, she knows how to host, she knows this world. You were fine for the struggle, but Mark has arrived.”
My stomach turned. The “Spa Weekend” wasn’t a gift. It was an eviction notice. They were going to pack up my entire life, change the locks, and serve me papers while I was getting a massage three hours away.
“So that’s it?” I asked, my voice shaking, not with sadness, but with a cold, rising fury. “I pay the bills for six years, I support you, and the second you get a paycheck, I’m replaced?”
“I’ll write you a check,” Mark finally said, looking up with a pathetic, pleading look. “For your trouble. Just sign the papers, take the car, and go. Sarah and I… we just make sense now.”
Sarah smirked. “Don’t worry, I won’t throw out all your clothes. Just the tacky stuff.”
I looked around the room. I looked at the trash bags filled with my books, my clothes, my memories. Then I looked at the “Sold” sign on the Zillow printout sitting on the coffee table under the divorce papers. They were planning to sell the house too.
And then, I started to laugh.
It started as a chuckle and turned into a full-blown cackle. The four of them looked at each other, confused.
“Is she hysterical?” Sarah asked, clutching Mark’s arm tighter.
“Mark,” I said, wiping a tear from my eye. “You really are your mother’s son. Stupid and arrogant.”
“Excuse me?” his mother bristled.
“You forgot one very, very important detail about those ‘scraping by’ years,” I said, stepping fully into the room and dropping my bag. “Do you remember why we were scraping by? Because your credit was ruined, Mark. You had that bankruptcy from your failed startup before we met.”
Mark’s face went pale.
“So when we bought this house three years ago,” I continued, walking over to the coffee table and picking up the papers, “the bank wouldn’t put you on the mortgage. And because you weren’t on the mortgage…”
I ripped the divorce papers in half.
“…you aren’t on the deed.”
The room went dead silent. His father froze. Sarah dropped her hand from Mark’s arm.
“This house,” I said, pointing to the floor, “is mine. 100% mine. Purchased with my credit, my down payment from my grandmother’s inheritance, and under my name.”
“That’s not… we’re married,” Mark stammered. “It’s marital property!”
“Actually,” I smiled, “since the down payment was separate property inheritance, and I’ve made every single mortgage payment from my personal account while you were ‘interning,’ I have a very, very good lawyer who will argue otherwise. But right now? That doesn’t matter. What matters is that you are all trespassing.”
I pulled out my phone. “Mrs. Dorsey called me, but she also called the police. They should be here in about… two minutes.”
As if on cue, sirens wailed in the distance, getting louder.
“Mark, fix this!” Sarah shrieked, backing away from him. “You said you owned the place! You said she would just sign and leave!”
“Get out,” I said, my voice dropping to a whisper that carried more weight than his father’s shouting ever could. “Get your parents, get your high school girlfriend, and get out of my house. And Mark? Leave the keys.”
“But… where will I go?” Mark asked, looking like a lost child.
I kicked one of the black trash bags toward him. “You have plenty of bags packed. Pick one.”
I watched them scramble out the front door, Sarah cursing at Mark, his parents dragging their own coats, and Mark clutching a trash bag of my old sweaters because he grabbed the wrong one in his panic.
When the door slammed shut, I locked it. Then I walked to the window. Mrs. Dorsey was on her porch, holding a baseball bat in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. She winked.
I poured myself a glass of the expensive wine his parents had sent over, sat on my couch, and waited for the police to take their statements. I was going to enjoy my weekend after all.
