In the hallway behind him, Solene set a heavy cardboard box onto my grandmother’s hand-carved cedar chest.

The wood groaned under the weight.

“Solene, don’t put that there,” I said, my voice cracking.

She ignored me, open-zipping a duffel bag and pulling out a stack of folded blouses.

“This is my house, Rylan,” I said, turning back to him. “It belonged to my grandmother, and it was left to me alone.”

“On paper, originally, yes,” he said, folding his arms.

He leaned back against the counter, tapping his fingers against his elbows.

“But then we replaced the water heater.”

“And we patched the roof after the spring storm,” he added.

“We paid for those out of our joint checking account, Calla.”

“That was marital income.”

I stared at him, the air in the kitchen suddenly feeling thick and hard to breathe.

“Those were minor maintenance repairs,” I said. “That doesn’t give you the right to my family’s home.”

“My lawyer disagrees,” Rylan said, a small, cold smile touching the corners of his mouth.

“He says the moment we used joint funds to maintain and improve the property, we commingled the asset.”