That night, I parked in front of the condo building in Crossroads and killed the engine. The lobby lights spilled onto the sidewalk as I stepped out, keys still in hand. I took the elevator up—heart steady, jaw tight—and stopped at their door. Knocked three times—firm, no hesitation.
Footsteps inside. Then the door cracked open. His wife stood there in yoga pants and an oversized hoodie, phone in one hand. She didn’t move to let me in—just blocked the gap with her body.
“What are you doing here? We’re unpacking.”
“I need to talk to my brother,” I said, glancing past her into the open‑plan living room stacked with wedding gifts and suitcases.
She rolled her eyes. “Anything you say, you can say in front of me. I’m his wife now.”
My brother appeared behind her, hair tousled, still in the same shirt from the photos. He rubbed his neck. “Sis, it’s late. Come back tomorrow.”
“No,” I replied. “We do this now—alone.”
His wife crossed her arms. “Not happening. Spit it out.”
I looked straight at him. “You let her call me pathetic on the phone. You agreed I ‘control’ you. Explain that to my face.”