David came home the next night furious.
Cecilia was with him.
Of course she was.
She stood behind him in the foyer, wearing the expression of a woman who thought she was about to witness a husband put his wife back in her place.
Instead, she watched two movers carry boxes past her.
David’s face turned pale.
“What is this?” he demanded.
“The house sold,” I said.
“You can’t sell my house.”
“I didn’t.”
I handed him the folder.
“I sold mine.”
Cecilia’s mouth opened slightly.
David flipped through the papers, searching for a loophole, a mistake, a miracle.
He found none.
For years, he had mistaken my patience for weakness. But patience is not blindness. Sometimes it is simply a woman gathering every document before she closes the door.