After three years of working away from home, my husband came back with a strange new habit: every night, he wrapped his arms around my waist from behind, something he had never done before. I asked him, “Who taught you to sleep like that?” He sighed and replied, “If you pretend you don’t know, you can keep being my wife.” I didn’t argue. The next day, I called my lawyer because I already had proof of what he had been doing for those three years.

Gwen said.

“She looked scary in the picture you showed me.”

Picture.

He had shown her my picture.

I felt sick.

Christopher replied.

“Lorelei doesn’t do anything.”

My heart stopped.

Then he added.

“She talks.”

“She acts tough.”

“But she won’t blow up her own life.”

I had to bite the inside of my cheek to stay quiet.

Gwen laughed.

Then.

“Come over early tomorrow.”

“I want to have something you made for breakfast.”

Christopher said.

“You come here.”

My body went cold.

Here.

Our house.

Gwen giggled.

“She’ll be there.”

“So?”

Then Christopher said something I never forgot.

“She needs to learn what reality looks like.”

I went upstairs.

Closed the bedroom door.

Then opened my phone.

I called Helena.

She answered on the third ring.

“Lorelei?”

“Tomorrow.”

“What?”

“I’m done.”

Silence.

Then.

“What happened?”

“He invited her here.”

Helena exhaled.

“Do you want me there?”

“No.”

“Security?”

“No.”

“Then document.”

“I will.”

“And Lorelei?”

“Yes?”

“Do not let them provoke you.”

That sentence saved me the next morning.

At 7:18, I heard the front door.

I was still upstairs.

I deliberately stayed there.

Voices.

Gwen.

Christopher.

Laughter.

Then the smell of coffee.

I showered.

Put on pajamas again.

Not because I was weak.

Because I wanted them comfortable.

At 7:42, I came downstairs.

Gwen was in my kitchen.

She wore cream trousers.

A pale blue blouse.

Perfect hair.

Barefoot.

Barefoot.

That detail hurt more than it should have.

Her shoes were beside the door.