“I’m not raising a baby in a foreclosed house with a man facing federal theft charges,” she said.

She climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine.

Scott stood on the driveway, the exhaust fumes wrapping around his bare ankles as she backed out.

He didn’t move for a long time after she sped away.

He just stared at the empty street.

I shifted my car into drive and slowly pulled away from the curb.

In my rearview mirror, I saw him kick a plastic recycling bin, sending it crashing into the gutter.

By Friday, the local paper had published the legal notices.

Under the county sheriff’s listings, our suburban address was marked for foreclosure.

The bank had moved quickly once the primary mortgage payment went thirty days past due.

Scott had used our joint savings to pay the initial retainer for his criminal lawyer, leaving nothing for the house.

Fortunately, Jerome had already frozen my personal accounts and filed a motion to protect my half of the equity.

I met Rachel at a diner downtown for lunch.