My jobless husband demanded I pay for his mom’s trip to Hawaii—or I’d be the one leaving this house. My MIL just laughed, saying, “You’ll have to pay.” So I threw the divorce papers at both of them and said, “Fine—let’s get a div

“You can’t be serious,” he whispered, suddenly sitting upright.

“Oh, I’m serious,” I said. “And before you start threatening me again—check the attachments.”

Ethan turned the page, scanned the bold headings, and his mouth opened without making a sound. Patricia reached for the documents with stiff fingers, reading just enough to understand.

Then the front door handle rattled—hard—like someone was trying to force it open.

Ethan stared at me. “Who did you call?”

I didn’t respond.

Because the person outside wasn’t here for me.

The knocking turned into pounding, heavy enough to make the framed photos on the wall shake. Ethan stood halfway up, unsure whether to act like the man of the house or stay the boy who hid behind his mother.

Patricia recovered first. “Ethan,” she whispered sharply, “don’t open it. It’s probably her little drama—one of her friends.”

I walked to the door anyway. My heartbeat stayed oddly steady, like my body had decided it was finished wasting adrenaline on this family.