“I thought you meant clothes,” she muttered.
Scott turned toward her and then back to me. “You didn’t have to be dramatic about it.”
I almost laughed, though nothing about the moment felt funny.
“Dramatic would have been setting the sofa on fire,” I said quietly. “I just called movers.”
Two weeks earlier, when I discovered Scott’s affair, he had leaned against this very counter and said something he thought was clever.
“If you don’t like it, you can leave. Take your belongings.”
He said it with the relaxed arrogance of someone who believed everything in the house belonged to him. He had forgotten that I was the one who handled the purchases, the invoices, the contractors, and the design work that turned a dull property into a home people complimented.
He had also forgotten that I kept records.
The next morning I hired a moving company from downtown Chicago called Harbor Transit Movers. The foreman, a cheerful man named Victor Grayson, listened carefully while I explained.
“So everything goes?” he asked.
“Everything that has a receipt in my name,” I said.
Victor nodded once and grinned. “That sounds like most of it.”
It was.