When my ex-husband and his new wife Abby returned from their honeymoon, they expected to settle into the house I had built with him. But red tape greeted them—stretched across doors and staircases—a boundary I set to reclaim what was mine. “You have two weeks,” I said, calm and clear. “What’s beyond the tape stays mine.” They called me dramatic. I called it self-respect.

Each day, I quietly packed my memories and moved with peace. Abby cried on the patio. He said he missed my laughter. I reminded him he traded it for fantasy. Then came a call from my friend Lila—she saw a photo of the tape online and offered me a guest house by the beach. I said yes.