At forty-five, I was pregnant for the first time in my life. During the ultrasound, my doctor’s expression changed. She lowered her voice, asked me to come closer, and stopped me before I could call my husband. Panic hit me instantly. “Is the baby okay?” I asked. She told me the baby looked healthy. Then she turned the screen toward me and showed me something that shattered my marriage in a single breath.

Recent charges. Ones Meline had never approved. A twelve-hundred-dollar imported stroller. A twenty-five-hundred-dollar custom crib. An eight-hundred-dollar rocking chair.

All shipped to Tanya’s apartment.

All linked to the premium loyalty account of Eleanor Mercer. Garrett’s mother.

Colleen went quiet. “She knows.”

Meline stared at the screen. Eleanor had hugged her at Thanksgiving. Bought her a fertility prayer candle at Christmas. Sat across from her while she cried over failed cycles. And all that time she had been helping furnish the nursery for Garrett’s mistress.

Still, Meline didn’t scream. Didn’t throw anything. Didn’t collapse.

She walked to the printer.

Every statement. Every lease. Every screenshot. Every receipt. Every hidden charge. Every copied medical file. She printed them all and slid them into plastic sleeves one by one. Then she built a thick navy binder and snapped the rings shut with a sound that felt like a verdict.

Colleen looked at it and asked, “When do we end him?”