The woman behind me in line suddenly became deeply interested in her gum display.
Heat climbed up my neck. I paid in cash from the emergency twenty-dollar bill I kept in my wallet and took the paper bag with hands that felt clumsy and huge.
In the car, I sat with the engine off and called the bank.
The joint accounts had been frozen.
All of them.
Insurance float. Household operating money. The account our medical bills auto-drafted from. Every dollar I touched in the visible life Nathan had built for us had just been put behind glass.
I called Sandra from the parking lot with my seatbelt still hanging loose against my shoulder.
“He froze everything.”
“Of course he did,” she said, already moving. I could hear papers shifting. “I’ll file emergency relief this afternoon.”
I pressed the heel of my hand against my eyes.
The humiliation at the pharmacy wasn’t really about vitamins. It was about the message. Nathan wasn’t just angry. He wanted me reminded, publicly and efficiently, that access had always flowed through him.
That same evening, Sandra had the emergency filing drafted.
By Monday, Gerald filed back.
His motion landed in my inbox at 4:17 p.m.