Patricia shook her head in disbelief. “He told me the insurance ran out, and that you agreed this was the only place we could afford. He said he was paying for this out of his own pocket.”
The depth of his manipulation was staggering. He had isolated his mother, lied to his wife, and stolen our shared future, all to maintain a facade of luxury for himself and another woman. I comforted Patricia, promising her that I would handle everything and that she would be moved back to a proper care facility by the end of the week.
Leaving the facility, I made three phone calls. The first was to an aggressive divorce attorney recommended by a close friend. The second was to a bank manager to freeze all joint accounts, though I suspected Michael had already drained them. The third call was to a local locksmith.
Two days later, the front door lock of our suburban home was changed, and all of Michael’s belongings were packed into heavy cardboard boxes stacked neatly on the porch. I sat in the living room, the television screen displaying the pause menu of the security footage Elena had given me.
At exactly six in the evening, I heard his car pull into the driveway. A few moments later, the sound of his key scratching against the newly replaced lock echoed through the hallway. He tried multiple times before knocking loudly.
When I opened the door, he looked confused, holding his briefcase and a garment bag. “Honey? Did the lock break? What are all these boxes?”
“Your new accommodations,” I said, my voice deadpan and entirely devoid of emotion.
Michael laughed nervously, trying to step past me, but I blocked the doorway. “What is this, a joke? I just got back from a grueling three-day conference. I’m exhausted.”
“A conference in Room 120?” I asked, stepping back to reveal the large television screen behind me. I pressed play on the remote. The video began to loop, showing Michael and the woman walking hand-in-arm down the hospital corridor.
The color drained from Michael’s face instantly. His briefcase dropped to the porch floor with a loud thud. “Where… how did you get that?”
“It doesn’t matter how I got it,” I replied, staring at the stranger I had been married to for five years. “What matters is that the police have a copy for trespassing and theft of services, my lawyer has a copy for the asset division, and your mother knows exactly why she was dumped in a state ward while I was writing checks to save her life.”
Michael began to stammer, reaching out his hands in desperation. “It’s not what it looks like! I can explain, please—”
“Goodbye, Michael,” I said quietly, cutting him off before shutting the heavy wooden door completely and locking it securely from the inside.
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