That weekend, I packed my belongings and moved into my bungalow on Linden Street. Brett called every night for two weeks, but apologies weren’t enough. Then he finally did something meaningful. Instead of asking me for money, he helped Gail meet with a housing counselor. Together, they sold her house before foreclosure could take it. After paying the outstanding loan, Gail used what remained to move into a modest senior apartment near her sister. Eventually, she called me. Her apology was awkward and stiff, but for the first time, it sounded sincere.

A month later, Brett appeared at my door carrying one suitcase and a counselor’s business card. He didn’t ask whether he could move in. He simply asked whether we could try rebuilding our marriage honestly. I agreed to counseling, not immediate forgiveness. We’re still working through what happened. Some evenings remain difficult, and trust hasn’t returned overnight. Gail visits on Sundays now, and she always asks permission before cooking. Her soup is still wonderful. But something important has changed: every household bill carries both our names, and every financial decision happens openly at my kitchen table. Nobody makes plans with my money or property anymore. This time, we’re building our future together.