My husband threw me out for his mistress in front of the whole neighborhood, screaming, “This is my house now!” He didn’t know my dying mother’s lawyer was on his way. When the lawyer revealed the house was mine and that my husband had forged my signature on $127K in loans, his face went white. Then, the lawyer said, “There is one more thing…”

Richard nodded. He didn’t knock. He rang the doorbell. Three times. Hard. Insistent. The sound of authority.

We heard heavy footsteps stomping through the foyer. The door swung open, and Derek filled the frame. His face was flushed, his eyes bright with adrenaline. When he saw me standing there with a stranger, his sneer returned.

“Who the hell are you?” Derek spat. “This is private property. You’re trespassing. If you don’t get her and her junk off my lawn, I’m calling the cops.”

“Actually,” Richard said, his voice dropping into that terrifyingly calm register that lawyers use right before they gut someone, “you are the one trespassing. And if you call the police, it will save me the trouble.”

Derek blinked. “Excuse me?”