“Has Ryan ever suggested that this house belongs to his family?”
I laughed bitterly.
“His mother says it almost every time she visits.”
Victoria didn’t laugh.
Instead, she made a note.
“Tell me everything.”
I did.
I told her about Patricia’s plans for the guest wing.
The investment brochures.
The missing household funds.
The family arguments.
The strange way Ryan always avoided discussing ownership.
When I finished, Victoria was quiet for several seconds.
Then she said something I would remember long after the divorce was over.
“Madison, sometimes people repeat a lie so often that they begin acting as though it’s legally true.”
“Do you think that’s what they’re doing?”
“I think we need to determine whether they’ve gone further than talking.”
We spent months preparing.
Financial records were reviewed.
Accounts were traced.
Property documents were examined.
Ryan attempted to negotiate an ownership interest in the house during the divorce.
He failed.
The final agreement and court order left the house with me.
On the morning the divorce became final, I arrived at the courthouse feeling strangely hollow.
I had expected triumph.
Instead, I felt exhausted.
Five years of marriage had ended in signatures and legal language.
Ryan sat across the courtroom from me, wearing a navy suit and an expression of polite detachment.
Patricia waited outside.
