I called my husband 31 times from the ER as his mother lay dying. On the 31st ring, his mistress answered. “He’s in the shower. We’re in Maui. Stop calling, old wife,” she laughed over the sound of ocean waves. He had fabricated a business trip so he could abandon us. My dying mother-in-law heard every cruel word. Fury blazed in her eyes. With the last breath she had left, she slipped a hidden silver key into my hand and silently mouthed two words: “Destroy him.” Then the heart monitor flatlined

At exactly 8:00 p.m., the front door of my former home rattled open. But Mark didn’t walk in alone.

“It’s a little dark, babe, but just wait until you see the potential,” Mark’s voice echoed through the tablet’s speaker. He dragged his expensive leather luggage into the pitch-black entryway, followed closely by the clicking of high heels.

Chloe stepped into the frame. She was younger than I expected, dripping in designer labels paid for by my suffering. She wrinkled her nose, looking around the sterile, entirely abandoned living room. “Ugh, it smells like old people and hospital bleach. You promised we could gut the whole thing, right? I want this entire kitchen knocked down.”

“Whatever you want, sweetheart,” Mark cooed, slapping the wall switch. The fluorescent bulbs flickered to life, illuminating the absolute void.

I watched his arrogant face contort in confusion as he noticed the absence of my coats, my shoes, the medical bed, the very essence of my existence. He stormed into the dining room.