“It’s our house,” I told her.

Her eyes glinted with disdain. “Of course it is. But we live here too. We contribute.”

Martha’s voice cut through. “How do you contribute?”

“I take care of the baby. I manage the household. Things you clearly can’t handle anymore.”

Forty years of running our home, dismissed in one sneer.

“Actually,” I said calmly, “it’s time for you and Samuel to find your own place. Eight years is long enough.”

She paled. Samuel was called, and she painted me as unreasonable. But when I handed him the papers with her name on our bills and mail, his façade cracked.

“Why would you do this, Everly?” he asked quietly.

Her mask slipped. “Because someone needed to be in control! We’ve been here for years. At what point does sweat equity become real equity?”

That was it. I called a lawyer.