They were engaged in a conversation I wanted no part of, as if I were invisible, a ghost from a life they had both decided to leave behind. As they spoke, I felt a weight lift from my shoulders. I no longer needed to pretend or to hope for something that was never real.

When Daniel finally addressed me, his voice was almost accusatory, as though my mere existence was an inconvenience. “Llaya, we need to talk about the house,” he began, but I stopped him.

“No,” I said, my voice firm, surprising even myself. “We don’t. The house, and everything else, is mine. You see, Daniel, I am not the person you thought I was.”