I Paid for Our Home, But He Made Me Sleep on the Couch

Now he was using the word snatch.

I opened the home purchase contract.

Titleholder: Jennifer Fox.

Borrower: Jennifer Fox.

The down payment transfer records were saved in my cloud drive.

So was the renovation contract.

Craig saw the screen, and his face changed.

"What are you doing, digging through all that?"

I locked the screen.

"Can't sleep."

He dropped his voice.

"Don't wake Carissa."

I glanced at the master bedroom door.

That door had someone else's sign hanging on it.

That bed had someone else's blanket on it.

That room held someone else's medicine.

I picked up my phone and messaged Monica James the agent.

"This place. Can we get it on the market fast?"

She replied right away.

"You can really part with it?"

I wrote back:

"I can."

The white noise in the master bedroom paused for a second.

Craig spun around and knocked on the door.

"Carissa? Are you awake?"

I set my phone face-down on the coffee table.

If the master bedroom of this place wasn't mine.

Then there was no reason this place had to be ours.

The next morning, I opened the fridge.

My coffee beans were gone.

So was my yogurt.

Where the hot sauce used to sit, there was now a row of low-sugar oat milk.

A sticky note was stuck to the fridge door.

Carissa: no caffeine, no cold drinks, no sugar.

The handwriting was Craig's.

He came out of the kitchen carrying a bowl of porridge.

"Keep it light for a while. Carissa can't handle strong smells."

I looked at that bowl of porridge.

Last night my stomach was killing me, and he never asked if I could even eat.

Now he remembered that Carissa couldn't stand smells.

I picked up my bag.

"I'm not eating."

Craig frowned.

"Throwing a fit again? You have to pull a face over one breakfast?"

I changed into my shoes.

"Save it for soothing her."

His voice went heavy.

"Jennifer, don't be so ugly about it."

I went to the walk-in closet.

In the main wardrobe hung Carissa's beige coat, her nightgown, her shawl.

My gown bag had been moved out to the balcony, the bottom of it grimy with dust.

I picked up the gown.

Craig followed me in.

"It makes her anxious to have her things out in the open. Don't read into it."

"And my gown out on the balcony, that doesn't make me anxious?"

He pressed his lips together.

"You really have to compete with a sick woman?"

My phone buzzed.

A message popped up in the Gilbert family group chat.

Cecily Gilbert had sent a voice note.

"Craig, how did Carissa sleep last night? Don't let Jennifer go into the master bedroom and bother her. A patient can't take that kind of trouble."

Craig replied:

"Don't worry. I've got it handled."

Cecily sent another:

"Jennifer's a capable girl. A few days of putting up with things won't hurt her. After the wedding we'll all be one family."

No one asked where I'd slept last night.

No one asked whether my stomach had stopped hurting.

I screenshotted the chat.

Craig saw, and his expression soured.

"What are you taking screenshots for?"

"A keepsake."

He reached for my phone.

I stepped back half a step.

"Don't touch it."

His hand stopped in midair.

"Jennifer, why are you so prickly now?"

I put the gown back into its bag.

"Your whole family is pricklier when they talk. I'm just a slow learner."

That morning, I took a half day off.

I exported the down payment records.

I exported the monthly mortgage deductions.

I exported the renovation invoices.

I exported the maintenance fees, the appliance orders, the furnishing lists.

In the spreadsheet, Craig's actual contribution to the mortgage was a few scattered transfers.

Among the furniture, only the TV and the dining table had gone through his card.

I messaged Meryl Matthews.

"Help me look into a pre-marital property settlement."

She wrote:

"You finally woke up?"

I replied:

"Cut the chatter. Run the numbers."