An hour later, we were seated in a corner booth at the airport Tim Hortons. The boys were demolishing plates of pancakes, their resilience a stark contrast to their father. Michael sat opposite me, nursing a black coffee, his shoulders hunched as if expecting a blow.

“Tell me,” I said. “Everything. Don’t leave out a single detail.”

He took a shaky breath, wrapping his hands around the warm mug. “Jennifer left me three months ago. But… it wasn’t just that she left, Dad. She took everything. The house, the bank accounts, the business capital. All of it.”

I frowned. “The house was in both your names. The business was a partnership.”

“She had me sign papers,” he said, his voice dropping. “About six months ago. She said it was for tax purposes, to protect the assets if the startup hit a rough patch. She wanted to put the house in her name only. I trusted her. She’s my wife. I signed.”

He paused, swallowing hard. “Then, one day I came home from work, and the locks were changed. There was a process server waiting on the lawn with a restraining order. Her lawyer claimed I was mentally unstable. Dangerous. He said I had been threatening her and the boys.”