Three Baby Cribs and a Missing Set of Car Keys
“We can sell the old tools in the garage,” Shaun said. “The lawnmower is worth at least two hundred. Ryan never uses it anyway.”
“No,” I said. “I do not want him accusing us of theft before the papers are served. We do this legally.”
I took the bank statement back from Shaun. The paper was thin, light in my hand, but it felt like the final brick in the wall Ryan had built around us.
A sudden gust of wind swept up the driveway, catching the edge of the printed page. I held onto the corner, watching the white paper flutter and strain against my fingers as I stood there in the gravel.
Shaun took the paper from my hand and stuffed it into his pocket, then walked toward the back gate.
“We need to clear the yard before the sun gets too high,” he said, holding the wooden latch open for me.
The suburban grass was manicured, a bright, artificial green that Ryan had insisted on fertilizing every April. In the center of the lawn sat the blue plastic activity table and the three matching miniature chairs we bought when the babies first learned to sit up.
