So he hadn’t just neglected me and he had painted me as a liar to justify himself.

“Send me that screenshot,” David said, his voice flat and cold. “Martinez is confirmed for 8 a.m.”

The next morning, the locksmith’s drill sealed my old life shut. At 9:30, movers swept through, boxing eight years of Tyler’s things with clinical efficiency.

Mrs. Chin, my elderly neighbor, appeared with soup. She looked at the movers, then at me. “That woman in the white BMW has been coming here for months. While you’re at work.”

Charlotte drove a white BMW. It wasn’t just lunches. He had violated our home too.

By noon, sixty-three boxes stood by the door. David handed me legal papers. Locks altered. Property packed. Forty-eight hours to collect. No direct contact.

I signed without hesitation.

The next day, the doorbell camera showed Tyler with his mother, Eleanor. Her voice was sharp: “Stand up straight. You look pathetic.”