The first line of the notice read that the apartment they were dining in was owned solely by me and that every occupant was now served with a notice to vacate. That was the part none of them had considered while cracking lobster in my chairs. The apartment was not marital property. I had bought it before the marriage, in my name alone, and Marguerite and my father-in-law had been living in it rent-free for three years, along with Camille whenever it suited her, all of it framed as helping to raise Nora. The forty-two thousand a month was not childcare. It was six adults living a resort life on a working mother’s salary while that mother’s daughter ate a stale roll on a cold balcony because seafood, apparently, would spoil her.
The screenshots did the rest. The recording light on Camille’s phone had been glowing while Marguerite explained that a little discomfort teaches discipline, and my own phone had been in my coat pocket recording too, from the moment I opened the balcony door. A three-year-old, cold, asking whether she could come inside, with six adults and a seafood tower behind her. My attorney did not have to argue anything. She simply forwarded it.
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