I had just gotten home from the hospital with a shattered femur when my mother-in-law kicked my crutches out from under me. I hi:t the hardwood floor screaming in agony, only for my husband to grab me by the throat and whisper, “Mom wants the master bedroom, so you’re sleeping in the garage.”

The sound cracked through the garage like a judge’s gavel. I laughed once, small, sharp, and final. Two officers moved in. Daniel did not fight. He looked at me with wet, pleading eyes as they cuffed him.

“Mara, please. I was scared.”

“No,” I said. “You were greedy.”

Vivian fought, of course. She screamed about property rights, family loyalty, and my “dramatic little injury.” Then she tried to shove past an officer and grab the flash drive. Bad choice. They turned her against the wall and cuffed her under the fluorescent light while she screamed my name like a curse.

The paramedics rolled in a stretcher. As they lifted me, pain tore through my leg again, but this time I did not scream. I watched Daniel and Vivian being led out of my house—the house my grandmother had left me, the house Daniel had never paid a mortgage on, the house Vivian had tried to steal with perfume, cruelty, and a locked door.

At the threshold, Daniel looked back.

“I loved you,” he said.