He Gave Our Home to Her, So I Left with My Money

“Are you out of your mind?”

“My mom just got a call from the developer. They said you filed a withdrawal declaration.”

“Cornelia, we spent six months on that place. We finally locked in the price, and now you're pulling out?”

“I'm not making a scene.”

“Then what are you doing?”

I stood at the edge of the sidewalk, watching the red light count down, second by second.

“I'm getting my money back.”

The line went quiet for two seconds.

Then Duane laughed.

The kind of laugh that comes from pure exasperation.

“It's only three hundred grand. Is this really necessary?”

“When you sold your bracelets to scrape that money together, I told you to stop. You were the one who insisted.”

“And now you're throwing it in my face? What's the point?”

My fingers tightened, slowly.

“You're right. There's no point.”

Something in my tone must have registered, because his voice softened.

“Cornelia, that's not what I meant.”

“I just think, we're about to get married. Splitting everything down to the last dollar hurts what we have.”

“Withdraw the declaration, and tonight I'll take you to that private kitchen place you love.”

“Then we can talk it through properly.”

Talk it through. Again. He always said we'd talk.

And every time, it ended with me being the one who gave in.

I watched the light turn green across the street and stepped forward with the crowd.

“No need, Duane. There's nothing left for us to talk through.”

The line went dead silent.

It was a long moment before he spoke again.

“Cornelia, what's that supposed to mean?”

I said：“Exactly what it sounds like.”

After I hung up, I went straight to the rental apartment.

The movers were already waiting downstairs.

I'd booked them a week ago.

That was when I'd noticed my name wasn't on the property registration, and I'd already braced for the worst.

If Duane had taken those keys back in front of everyone last night, if he'd given me even one honest word, maybe I would have canceled the booking.

But he hadn't.

The mover saw me standing there alone and asked：

“Lot of stuff?”

“Not much.”

The things that were actually mine really weren't much.

A few boxes of books, two bags of clothes, a laptop, one set of art supplies.

Everything else was the life I'd pieced together, little by little, over the years.

I left the kitchen cups. I left the throw pillows in the living room. I even left the floor lamp I'd hunted down across three different stores.

Not because I couldn't bear to part with them. I just couldn't be bothered to want them anymore.

When the mover was nearly done, he dragged a cardboard box out from under the bed.

“This one too?”

I looked down at it.

It was full of Duane and me, all those years packed inside.

Movie ticket stubs, vacation photos, matching slippers, and that notebook crammed with our wedding plans.

I crouched down and opened the notebook.

On the first page, in my handwriting：Wedding budget, under twenty thousand.

On the second page, in Duane's：All that matters is the bride being happy.

I looked at that line, and I smiled.

Then I dropped the whole notebook into the trash bag.

“Leave it.”

At five in the afternoon, I set the keys on the entryway cabinet.

I snapped a photo and sent it to Duane.

【Keys are here. I've moved out.】

He didn't reply.

Three minutes later, he called.

I hung up.

He called again. I hung up again.

After the seventeenth call, he sent a message.

【Cornelia, you'll regret this.】

I looked at the words and sent one last reply：【The one who'll regret it is you.】

At eight that night, Duane finally came back to the apartment.

By then I was already in the car heading to the train station.

On the phone, Violet Pruitt asked me：

“You're really not going to tell him where you're going?”

“Not telling him.”