I asked the guard for copies of every clip, and I drove home in my SUV without calling Desmond. My hands were shaking the whole drive. That night, while he slept, I opened his laptop. The password was our anniversary. Inside was a folder labeled Notes, filled with dated entries about every time I forgot something, along with the videos of me wandering parking lots looking lost and confused.

There was also a draft power of attorney, and an email to a neurologist describing my “rapidly worsening memory.” Every time he joked about my memory, he had been building a case. The woman in the car was named Celine. They had been together for over a year. My late father had left me a lake house worth nearly six hundred thousand dollars, in my name alone. Desmond planned to have me declared unfit so he could sell it and leave with her.

I kept the neurologist appointment, but I went alone, before the date he had scheduled. I took every test. My memory was completely normal. I’m just a busy, distracted person, the doctor said, like millions of other people. She was horrified when I showed her the email. Then I hired a lawyer, handed her the footage, the folder, and the draft documents, and changed the locks while Desmond was at work.

The divorce was quick once his lawyer saw the videos. Desmond got nothing from the lake house, and Celine stopped answering his calls when she learned there would be no sale. I sent the security guard a thank-you card and a cake. I still forget my phone sometimes, and my coffee still goes cold in the microwave. But now I laugh about it. And every Saturday, I park in row C7, and my SUV is always exactly where I left it.