I stood there, frozen, watching another woman stir coffee in a mug I’d bought, drowning in flannel I’d once worn on quiet Sunday mornings. She looked small inside my clothes, like a child playing dress-up with a life she didn’t understand. When our eyes met, her smile faltered. She knew she was somewhere she didn’t belong, but not yet how deeply she’d been used as a prop in his performance. I spoke softly, because rage would have given him power. Calm stripped him bare.

By the time I told her to take the pajamas off, the illusion was already undone. I wasn’t the replaceable one; he was. Houses can be sold, beds can be emptied, closets can be cleared. What he could never repossess was the woman who walked away with her self-respect intact. He thought he’d traded up. In reality, he’d simply exposed how little he was ever worth.