Chapter 2

By eight the next morning, Kayla was drilling a gaming shelf into the wall where Ellie’s solar system used to hang.

Fine white dust covered the baseboard. The glow-in-the-dark planets Ellie and I had arranged by size were gone, leaving pale circles on the blue paint.

Ben sat cross-legged on the bed, sorting controllers. He looked up when I entered.

“Mom said this will keep my stuff off the floor.”

Kayla lowered the drill. “I hope the noise didn’t wake you.”

“You’re installing furniture.”

“It’s one shelf, Megan. We can take it down when we leave.”

I looked around the room. Ellie’s model rockets had been packed into a clear bin. Her navy comforter sat folded beneath the window. The marks measuring her height from ages six through nine were hidden behind Ben’s dresser.

“When is that?” I asked.

Kayla’s expression changed. “When is what?”

“When are you leaving?”

“I’m looking.”

“For seven months?”

Her mouth tightened. “Ben has been through enough. I’m trying to give him some stability.”

Ellie appeared behind me, still wearing the pajamas she had slept in.

Her eyes went first to the new shelf, then to the small white desk pushed against the opposite wall.

“Ben can use my desk too,” she said. “If he needs it.”

“No.” My answer came so quickly that everyone looked at me. “Your desk is not available.”

Kayla set the drill down. “I didn’t realize we were keeping score.”

“That’s because Ellie has been paying the cost.”

Ben stared at his hands. I immediately regretted saying it in front of him. None of this was his fault.

“Come on,” Kayla said quietly. “Let’s get breakfast.”

She guided him past us, one hand on his shoulder.

Luke called ten minutes later.

“Did you really interrogate Kayla in front of Ben?”

“Your sister was installing a permanent shelf in Ellie’s bedroom.”

“It isn’t permanent.”

“What date is she leaving?”

Silence.

“Luke?”

“She already feels like a burden.”

“Ellie slept under the stairs.”

“Not anymore. She slept with you.”

As if my bed had solved everything.

“You said Kayla was looking for an apartment. How many has she seen?”

“She’s working on it.”

“How many applications has she submitted?”

“Megan, stop trying to corner me.”

“What date is she leaving?”

“Soon.”

Soon had already taken seven months of my daughter’s life.

I ended the call and drove to Dana Ruiz’s office.

Dana listened without interrupting. Then she opened a yellow legal pad.

“The house was purchased before the marriage?”

“One year before. Luke’s name is the only one on the deed.”

“And you’ve been married ten years?”

I nodded. “My paycheck covers most of the mortgage. I pay the homeowners insurance. I also paid for the kitchen renovation and half the new roof.”

“Do you have records?”

“Some.”

“Find all of them.”

She explained that paying the mortgage did not automatically give me half the house. Luke’s premarital interest, the principal paid during our marriage, and any increase in value would have to be separated and documented.

“Being the person who kept the house afloat matters,” she said. “But it doesn’t turn a complicated asset into a simple one.”

“So I may have a claim.”

“You may. You don’t yet have a number.”

She told me not to empty our joint accounts or deliberately let the mortgage default. If I was considering separation, I needed bank statements, tax returns, renovation invoices, and a safe place for Ellie within her current school district.

“What do you want, Megan?”

I thought of Ellie under the stairs.

“I want my daughter to stop asking permission to exist in her own home.”

Dana’s expression softened, but her voice stayed practical. “Then start with somewhere she can sleep.”

That afternoon, I toured a second-floor apartment twelve minutes from Ellie’s school.

The kitchen counters were scratched. The laundry closet barely fit a stacked washer and dryer. The rent, deposit, and legal fees would consume nearly everything I usually saved.

But it had two bedrooms.

The smaller one faced east. Morning light filled the empty walls, and the door closed with a quiet click.

I took a picture.

That evening, I sat beside Ellie on my bed and showed it to her.

“I looked at a place today,” I said. “Just looked.”

She studied the photograph. “Which room is that?”

“It could be yours.”

“Really mine?”

“Yes.”

She enlarged the picture, examining the blank walls and empty floor.

I expected her to ask about painting stars on the ceiling.

Instead, she looked up at me.

“Could somebody take it away?”