“Are you coming down or what?”
I folded the paper and shoved it in my pocket, then grabbed my suitcase and headed downstairs. Trevor was standing by the front door, blocking it, his arms crossed over his chest.
“Where do you think you’re going with those bags?”
“The kids and I are staying at my dad’s for a few days.”
“Like hell you are.”
He moved closer and I instinctively stepped back.
“You’re not taking my children anywhere.”
“They’re my children too, Trevor. And we’re just visiting my dad. It’s not a big deal.”
“It is a big deal when you’re acting crazy and irrational.” His voice rose. “First you make a scene about the car. Now you’re running to daddy like a child. When are you going to grow up, Jessica?”
I felt the paper in my pocket like it was burning.
“I found the bill of sale.”
The color drained from his face for just a second before the anger rushed back in.
“You went through my things.”
“It was sticking out of your pocket. You were planning to sell my car. My car, Trevor—the one my father bought for me and the kids. The one that’s in my name, not yours.”
“We’re married. What’s yours is mine. You said so yourself. Family shares everything.”
He was using Amber’s words, her logic, and it made me feel sick.
“That’s not how it works. That car is titled solely in my name. Selling it without my permission is theft.”
Trevor laughed, harsh and bitter.
“You’re going to call me a thief after everything I’ve done for you? After I gave you this house, this life?”
“I helped pay for this house. I work too, Trevor. I contribute.”
“You’re a teacher. You make what—thirty-five thousand a year? That’s barely enough to cover groceries,” he sneered, and I saw his sisters in that expression. “Without me, you’d be living in some apartment somewhere, struggling to make rent.”
Behind me, I heard Lily start to cry softly. She’d come to the top of the stairs and was watching us fight. Owen was beside her, his thumb in his mouth, his eyes wide and scared.
“Stop it,” I said quietly, gesturing to the kids. “Just stop.”
“I’ll stop when you put those bags away and start acting like a wife instead of a spoiled brat who runs to daddy every time things don’t go her way.”
There was a knock at the door—hard, authoritative. Trevor and I both froze.
“That’s my dad,” I said. “He’s waiting for us.”
“Tell him to leave.”
“No.”
The knock came again, louder this time. Trevor’s face went red.
