I looked at her.
“Apparently, you’ve chosen mine.”
She pressed her lips together.
Tyler shifted in his chair.
“Deb, we need to be realistic. The kids are away at college. You’re here by yourself most of the time. You don’t need a house this large.”
I looked at the man I had married.
He had once carried our daughter upstairs when she fell asleep in the car. He had spent entire weekends teaching our son to ride a bicycle. He had stood beside me at my father’s funeral, holding my hand while I struggled to speak.
I had believed that the kindness I saw in those moments was the foundation of his character.
Now he was using our children’s absence as an argument for taking away their home.
“You know what this house means to me,” I said.
He looked down.
“I know.”
“No, Tyler. I don’t think you do.”
