I still remember the silence after my husband left. It wasn’t peaceful. It echoed through every empty corner of our apartment. When I came home with my seven-year-old son, Leo, I thought we had been robbed. But Daniel had taken the couch, the dining table, the television, and even the curtains. He had taken everything he believed his money had paid for.

That first night, Leo and I slept on two thin mattresses on the floor. Streetlights poured through the bare windows, so I smiled and told him we were “camping indoors.” I tried to make it sound like an adventure, but then Leo looked at me and asked, “Are we going to be okay, Mom?” I swallowed my tears and told him we already were.

Days later, Daniel began calling. Instead of apologizing, he laughed and asked, “So, how’s life without my money?” Then, one afternoon, an unknown woman called and introduced herself as Claire—the woman Daniel had left us for.