Travis stepped out of his truck and stopped cold. On the front lawn stood a large wooden sign, and beneath it sat every piece of Vanessa’s walk-in closet, folded in neat piles on folding tables. Each pile wore a price tag. Across the sign, in bold paint, were the words: “ESTATE SALE: PROCEEDS PAY GRANDMA’S INVOICE.” Neighbors were already gathering on the sidewalk, coffee in hand, whispering behind their palms.

Vanessa ran barefoot across the grass, shrieking that I had lost my mind. I stood on the porch with my suitcase, calm. “You asked for $2,400,” I said. “I am simply raising it.” Travis walked slowly to the nearest table and lifted a designer handbag with the tag still attached. His face turned gray. “Vanessa,” he said quietly, “why is there a receipt for this in our credit card statement?”