The spare bedroom had become my art studio. The garage had been converted into a small fitness space. The old recliner Gary had practically worshipped was gone. His golf
trophies had been packed into boxes and stored neatly in the attic.
And on the living room wall, where our wedding photograph once hung, there was a beautiful framed sign.
“A HOME IS A PLACE WHERE YOU ARE RESPECTED—NOT A HOTEL FOR PEOPLE WHO RUN OUT OF OPTIONS.”
Gary stared at it.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
I tilted my head.
“It’s a housewarming gift to myself.”
He scoffed.
“Debbie, stop being dramatic. I need a place to stay. Just until I get back on my feet.”
“
Of course.”
His expression relaxed.
“See? I knew you’d understand.”
Then Linda handed him the cardboard box.
“Here you go,” she said cheerfully.
Gary looked down at it.
