I stepped aside, and Marilyn walked out of the front hall with a clipboard, followed by two men in matching gray shirts. “Dennis Whitaker?” the taller one asked. Dennis’s smile wavered. “Yes?” The man handed him a thick manila envelope. “You have been served.” Dennis stared at it, then at me. “Carol, what is this?” I smiled gently. “Your welcome home gift. Open it.”

He tore it open with shaking hands. Inside was a petition to finalize the divorce, dated three weeks earlier, along with a signed property settlement I had already filed with the court. “You never signed this,” Dennis stammered. I tilted my head. “You did, honey, the day you left, when you were in such a hurry to leave you signed everything without reading.” Behind him, the second man set a plastic crate on the porch, filled with his things, including his favorite coffee mug.