That night, lying awake, Michael admitted what he had resisted for days. Sarah wasn’t simply hiding bills or stress. Someone else had been here—fixing swings, picking up groceries, leaving notes, drinking coffee in his attic. He clenched his fists in the dark, certain that while he was away defending his country, his very home was being invaded.
While folding laundry one morning, Michael found a pressed men’s shirt, size smaller than his. The label was crisp, the fabric smelling faintly of starch. He held it up, baffled. Sarah breezed in and claimed it was a donation she hadn’t delivered yet. Her tone was light, but her eyes avoided his.