Looking back, I realized I had spent years ignoring the same discrepancies I would have caught immediately at work. Brandon sold enterprise software, drove a leased Porsche, and charmed nearly everyone he met. I had fallen for that warmth when I was twenty-nine. But our finances had gradually become one-sided. He claimed his commissions were unpredictable and liked saying, “Your paycheck keeps us steady. Mine gets us ahead.” In reality, my salary covered the mortgage, property taxes, insurance, groceries, utilities, and much of his car. I kept telling myself marriage wasn’t a ledger, even when the numbers never made sense.

The divorce papers made everything worse. The judgment carried a judge’s signature, but the settlement agreement carried a forged version of mine. The handwriting looked convincing until I noticed the bottom loop of the L in my signature had been closed. The documents claimed we had lived separately for a year, exchanged financial disclosures, and divided our property by mutual agreement. They listed my address as my mother-in-law Dolores’s house, where I had never spent a night. Most disturbing was a notarized acknowledgment dated in May. I checked my calendar. That afternoon, I had been hospitalized with pneumonia, barely able to sit upright. Brandon had visited me with flowers and promised I shouldn’t worry about anything.