Jealousy.
Resentment.
Competition with a sixteen-year-old girl.
“Get out,” I told her.
She tried one last time — even pulling out the ring I’d hidden.
I took it back.
And I chose.
Not because it was difficult.
But because it wasn’t.
Avery heard the argument from the stairs.
She looked terrified — like she was three again and about to lose someone.
“I didn’t do it,” she whispered.
“I know,” I said. “I should never have doubted you.”
I held her the way I had the night we met.
The next day, I filed a police report. Quietly. Calmly. No drama.
And I told my supervisor before Marisa could twist the story.
Two weeks later, the house feels peaceful again.
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