After two years of ugly divorce proceedings, I finally got to keep the house.
Not because Harry suddenly became generous.
Because the judge had watched him drag out every hearing, argue over every fork, every lamp, every picture frame, until even the courtroom looked exhausted.
“You’ve cost both parties enough,” the judge had finally said.
“The house goes to Mrs. Lawson.”
For the first time in years, I could breathe.
Or so I thought.Three days later, I pulled into my driveway with a coffee in one hand and the first box from my apartment in the passenger seat.
Then I slammed on the brakes.
The house looked like it had been attacked.
Toilet paper hung from every tree.
Every bush.
Every porch rail.
Long white ribbons fluttered from the gutters.