When I listed the riverside marriage home—the one I'd put a $400K down payment on—on a resale site, the agent asked how I could bear to slash the price and take such a loss in such a hurry.

I pulled at the corner of my mouth.

"Because of a cashmere blanket."

Last night I worked overtime until the small hours, my stomach flared up, and I broke into a cold sweat from the pain in the living room. I wanted to push open the master bedroom door and lie down on the bed for a while.

But Craig Gilbert clamped a hand on the door handle, frowning.

"Don't go in. That silk bedding and the cashmere blanket are Carissa Henson's favorites. Last time you lay on them you left your perfume behind, and her insomnia kicked in—she was up the whole night."

He shut the door tight and coaxed me softly.

"Just bear with it, make do on the couch. Carissa's only just out of the hospital after severe depression. Let's cut her a little more slack."

The sight of him standing guard over the master bedroom stung me.

All at once this home—the one I'd run around the building-supply markets for six months to furnish—felt cold enough to make me shiver.

I didn't grill him the way I usually would. I just turned around in silence and walked toward the couch in the living room.

Craig shot me a glance, assumed I was throwing a tantrum, shook his head helplessly, and went back to the study.

Looking at the notification on my phone screen confirming my mortgage-release appointment, I closed my eyes and drifted off to sleep.

This fortress they called Mrs. Gilbert—I just wouldn't be stepping into it.

——

When I woke, my stomach was still cramping.

The living room light was still on. Half a glass of cold water sat on the coffee table.

Craig hadn't gotten me any medicine.

I propped myself up off the couch and sat upright, the backs of my hands slick with cold sweat.

Light leaked through the crack of the master bedroom door, and white noise drifted out.

It was the rain sounds Carissa had to play before sleep.

I made my way over, bracing against the wall.

A sign hung on the door handle.

Sleeping. Do Not Disturb.

The sign was new.

I'd never bought it.

I pushed the door.

It was locked from the inside.

Craig's voice came from the study.

"Jennifer Fox, leave the door alone."

I turned to look at him.

He was in his pajamas, holding a cup of hot water.

He didn't hand the hot water to me.

He set the cup on the little cabinet outside the master bedroom door.

"Carissa likes warm water when she wakes in the night."

I asked,

"Where's my stomach medicine?"

He paused.

"I'll buy you some tomorrow."

I opened the medicine box in the entryway.

My stomach medicine had been expired for three months.

Carissa's sleep aids were sorted into little compartments, each label marked with a date and dosage.

Craig came over and pressed a hand on the medicine box.

"Don't go messing with her medicine."

I closed the box.

"When did she move her medicine in here?"

"She's just out of the hospital. The doctor said she needs a stable environment."

"This is our marriage home."

His brow knotted tight.

"Do you really have to be this petty about every little thing? She's only staying a few nights."

I walked toward the second bedroom.

The door swung open to wedding favors piled inside.

Carissa's easel leaned against the wall, her yoga mat spread on the floor.

I turned to look at him.

"The second bedroom too?"

Craig avoided my eyes.

"Painting helps steady her moods."

I opened my phone.

The resale platform's estimate popped up, well below what I'd paid.

I sat back down on the couch and opened my banking app.

Remaining loan balance, early-repayment rules, the penalty fee—each item laid out clearly.

Craig stood beside me.

"What are you kicking up a fuss about now?"

I didn't look up.

"Checking the accounts."

He sighed.

"Jennifer, grow up a little. Carissa's sick, you're healthy—stop fighting her over a bed."

My finger stopped.

Fighting her over a bed.

I'd spent six months running the building-supply markets, overseeing the carpentry, the plumbing and wiring, the furnishings.

That bed was one I'd settled on only after trying seven different stores.

Now he was using the word snatch.

I opened the home purchase contract.

Titleholder: Jennifer Fox.

Borrower: Jennifer Fox.

The down payment transfer records were saved in my cloud drive.

So was the renovation contract.

Craig saw the screen, and his face changed.

"What are you doing, digging through all that?"

I locked the screen.

"Can't sleep."

He dropped his voice.

"Don't wake Carissa."

I glanced at the master bedroom door.

That door had someone else's sign hanging on it.

That bed had someone else's blanket on it.

That room held someone else's medicine.

I picked up my phone and messaged Monica James the agent.

"This place. Can we get it on the market fast?"

She replied right away.

"You can really part with it?"

I wrote back:

"I can."

The white noise in the master bedroom paused for a second.

Craig spun around and knocked on the door.

"Carissa? Are you awake?"

I set my phone face-down on the coffee table.

If the master bedroom of this place wasn't mine.

Then there was no reason this place had to be ours.

The next morning, I opened the fridge.

My coffee beans were gone.

So was my yogurt.

Where the hot sauce used to sit, there was now a row of low-sugar oat milk.

A sticky note was stuck to the fridge door.

Carissa: no caffeine, no cold drinks, no sugar.

The handwriting was Craig's.

He came out of the kitchen carrying a bowl of porridge.

"Keep it light for a while. Carissa can't handle strong smells."

I looked at that bowl of porridge.

Last night my stomach was killing me, and he never asked if I could even eat.

Now he remembered that Carissa couldn't stand smells.

I picked up my bag.

"I'm not eating."

Craig frowned.

"Throwing a fit again? You have to pull a face over one breakfast?"

I changed into my shoes.

"Save it for soothing her."

His voice went heavy.

"Jennifer, don't be so ugly about it."

I went to the walk-in closet.

In the main wardrobe hung Carissa's beige coat, her nightgown, her shawl.

My gown bag had been moved out to the balcony, the bottom of it grimy with dust.

I picked up the gown.

Craig followed me in.

"It makes her anxious to have her things out in the open. Don't read into it."

"And my gown out on the balcony, that doesn't make me anxious?"

He pressed his lips together.

"You really have to compete with a sick woman?"

My phone buzzed.

A message popped up in the Gilbert family group chat.

Cecily Gilbert had sent a voice note.

"Craig, how did Carissa sleep last night? Don't let Jennifer go into the master bedroom and bother her. A patient can't take that kind of trouble."

Craig replied:

"Don't worry. I've got it handled."

Cecily sent another:

"Jennifer's a capable girl. A few days of putting up with things won't hurt her. After the wedding we'll all be one family."

No one asked where I'd slept last night.

No one asked whether my stomach had stopped hurting.

I screenshotted the chat.

Craig saw, and his expression soured.

"What are you taking screenshots for?"

"A keepsake."

He reached for my phone.

I stepped back half a step.

"Don't touch it."

His hand stopped in midair.

"Jennifer, why are you so prickly now?"

I put the gown back into its bag.

"Your whole family is pricklier when they talk. I'm just a slow learner."

That morning, I took a half day off.

I exported the down payment records.

I exported the monthly mortgage deductions.

I exported the renovation invoices.

I exported the maintenance fees, the appliance orders, the furnishing lists.

In the spreadsheet, Craig's actual contribution to the mortgage was a few scattered transfers.

Among the furniture, only the TV and the dining table had gone through his card.

I messaged Meryl Matthews.

"Help me look into a pre-marital property settlement."

She wrote:

"You finally woke up?"

I replied:

"Cut the chatter. Run the numbers."

Meryl sent a single line.

"The house is in your name, your evidence is in order. Don't go soft."

Craig came home at noon.

He handed me a cup of warm water.

"I lost my temper last night. This weekend I'll take you to look at wedding rings."

I looked at that cup of water.

A water-temperature label of Carissa's was still stuck to the bottom.

One hundred thirteen degrees.

I didn't take it.

His phone buzzed.

A voice message from Carissa.

"Craig, this blanket's a little damp. I can't sleep."

Craig picked up his car keys.

"I'll go ask the dry cleaner. Back soon."

I asked,

"What about the ring?"

He stood in the doorway.

"That's not urgent."

I lowered my head and submitted the early-repayment appointment.

A confirmation popped up on the screen.

I tapped confirm.

He was busy nursing a blanket.

I was busy dismantling a marriage home.

Craig agreed to come with me to the hotel for the menu tasting.

I'd booked the slot two weeks in advance.

His parents had dietary restrictions, and I'd noted them three times.

Before we left, he got a call from Carissa.

She said she was too scared to go to her psych follow-up alone.

Craig glanced at me.

"You go ahead. I'll take her to her appointment and catch up with you after."

I picked up my car keys.

"Fine."

He let out a breath.

"Jennifer, I knew you'd understand."

I let the words pass without answering.

The hotel manager brought out the reception seating chart.

There was an extra name beside the head table.

Carissa Henson.

The notes were written out in detail.

Away from the speakers.

Away from the lights.

Close to the lounge.

So Mr. Gilbert could keep an eye on her.

I held the pen.

"Who changed this?"

The manager checked the computer.

"Mr. Gilbert called last night to confirm it."

I set the pen down.

"The head table is where the bride's and groom's parents sit."

The manager gave an awkward smile.

"Mr. Gilbert said Miss Henson's situation is special."

Half an hour later, Craig arrived.

Carissa trailed behind him.

She had that cashmere blanket draped over her, a folder of medical records clutched in her hand.

"Jennifer, should I not have come?"

I looked at Craig.

He stepped in front of her, shielding her.

"She's getting used to the venue ahead of time, so nothing goes wrong on the day."

I asked,

"My wedding. Who approved her getting used to it?"

Carissa's eyes rimmed red.

Craig's face darkened.

"Don't take it out on her. She can't handle a single harsh word."

I opened the menu.

"Then don't come."

The tasting began.

The first dish, the fish, came out.

Carissa covered her mouth.

"Fishy."

Craig immediately called the manager over.

"Swap this one out."

The second course, the soup, was set down.

She frowned.

"The flavor's too heavy."

Craig said,

"Swap that too."

The manager looked at me.

I pushed the menu over.

"Do what Mr. Gilbert says."

The music played for the test.

It was the warm-up song I'd chosen.

Carissa lowered her head and gripped the blanket.

"This sound presses down on me, I can't breathe."

Craig turned his head.

"Change it to a white-noise piano track."

I looked at him.

"Are the guests coming to a wedding, or coming to sleep?"

He kept his voice low.

"Jennifer, the wedding is just a formality. Carissa can't be agitated."

I asked,

"And me?"

He paused.

"You've always been stronger than her."

The words landed on the table.

I closed the folder.

Carissa spoke up softly.

"Maybe I just shouldn't come, so the two of you don't fight."

Craig immediately grabbed her wrist.

"No one's telling you to leave."

I saw his hand clearly.

Only then did he catch himself, and let go.