Chương 8
This time from Jennifer.
Tessa, we need to meet today.
There is one more issue.
Attached was a copy of a document Brent had submitted.
I opened it.
At the top was my husband's name.
Below it was a request for temporary control over access to the property.
My hand froze on the mouse.
He was not just claiming the house.
He was asking the court to decide whether I could enter it.
He was asking the court to decide whether I could enter it.
For a few seconds, I could not move.
The cursor blinked at the bottom of the page like it was waiting for me to react.
Molly read my face before she read the document.
"What?"
I turned the laptop toward her.
She scanned the first page.
Then the second.
Her mouth opened slightly.
"He did not."
I did not answer.
Because he had.
The strangest part was not the anger.
It was the disbelief.
Somewhere inside me, even after everything, I had still believed there was a line Brent would not cross.
A point where he would look at the damage and understand.
I had been wrong.
Molly closed the laptop carefully.
"Call Jennifer."
"Now."
I picked up my phone.
Jennifer answered immediately.
"I saw it," I said.
"I know."
"How?"
"His attorney sent it to me."
My hand tightened around the phone.
"Can he do this?"
"He can request it."
"Can he get it?"
"I do not know yet."
The answer made my stomach drop.
"Jennifer."
"I know."
"No, I need you to tell me."
She paused.
"Right now, the important thing is not whether he gets what he wants."
"Then what is?"
"We need to respond before his version becomes the first version the court sees."
The sentence reminded me that legal battles were not just about truth.
They were also about timing.
About paperwork.
About who moved first.
About who looked prepared.
"What does he claim?"
Jennifer sighed.
"He claims he has been excluded from the marital residence."
I closed my eyes.
"The marital residence."
"Yes."
"He means my house."
"He is describing it differently."
"Of course he is."
She continued.
"He also claims that because you are staying elsewhere, he has maintained possession of the property."
"Maintained possession?"
I looked around Molly's kitchen.
"He changed the locks."
"I know."
"He prevented me from entering."
"I know."
"Then how is he claiming I excluded him?"
Jennifer was quiet.
Because there was no good answer.
Not one that sounded reasonable.
But unreasonable things happened every day when people had enough confidence and enough resources to present them.
"We are going to address that," she said.
"When?"
"Today."
I looked toward Ivy.
She was sleeping peacefully in her bassinet.
The unfairness of it almost made me laugh.
Her first week alive had been filled with meetings, documents, and conversations about ownership.
Things no child should ever be connected to.
"I need to go back there," I said.
Molly immediately looked at me.
"No."
I covered the phone.
"I have to see what happened."
"No, you don't."
"I need to know."
Molly shook her head.
"You don't need to walk into a place where someone is trying to make you the villain."
I turned away.
But she was right.
That did not make it easier.
"I need Jennifer to come with me," I said.
Jennifer heard.
"That is actually a good idea."
"Really?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because we need to document the condition of the property."
The word document sounded so cold.
The house where I had spent years building memories had become evidence.
An hour later, I stood outside Redwood Crest Drive again.
This time, I was not alone.
Jennifer parked behind me.
Molly stayed in her car with Ivy because the baby had finally fallen asleep after a difficult morning.
I appreciated that she did not ask permission.
She simply understood that someone needed to protect the one person in this situation who had done nothing wrong.
The front door looked exactly the same.
That almost made it worse.
The flowers I planted near the walkway were still there.
The small crack in the stone step was still there.
The welcome mat still had the words we had chosen together.
Home.
I stared at it for a long time.
Then Jennifer touched my arm.
"You ready?"
No.
But I nodded anyway.
The new code worked.
That was the first thing I noticed.
Brent had given himself access.
Not me.
Him.
I opened the door slowly.
The house smelled different.
Not bad.
Just different.
Like someone else had been living there.
The living room looked almost untouched.
Then I noticed the details.
A suitcase near the hallway.
A stack of Diane's belongings on the guest room chair.
A framed photo that used to sit in my office now placed on the fireplace.
It was a picture from our wedding.
I picked it up.
I had not seen it in months.
Brent and I were smiling.
Really smiling.
Not pretending.
Jennifer watched me quietly.
"You okay?"
I put the frame down.
"I don't know."
That was the truth.
The hardest part was that the house still contained evidence of happiness.
You could not erase the good memories just because the ending became painful.
In the kitchen, I found something else.
A notebook on the counter.
I recognized it immediately.
It was Brent's.
I reached toward it, then stopped.
"Don't touch anything yet," Jennifer said.
I pulled my hand back.
She took photographs first.
Only after documenting the position did she open it.
The first pages were ordinary.
Shopping lists.
Appointments.
Notes about repairs.
Then we reached a page dated three weeks before Ivy was born.
I read the handwriting.
Need to figure out next steps.
Cannot keep feeling like a guest.
My chest tightened.
The next line was worse.
Need leverage.
Jennifer looked at me.
Neither of us spoke.
She turned the page.
There were only three words.
House.
Baby.
May you like
Timing.
The room felt suddenly colder.
