“And Lauren Bishop’s contact information. Do not return without legal arrangement.”
Derek hesitated, then took it with unsteady hands.
“Where am I supposed to go?”
I thought about everything he had dismissed—my work, my time, my ambition, my voice.
“That sounds like a problem for someone who thought my career didn’t matter.”
And I closed the door.
The pounding began ten minutes later.
Not just at the front door—at the garage, the patio, then back again. Derek wasn’t violent, but he relied on persistence.
If he pushed long enough, argued long enough, wore people down, they usually gave in.
I didn’t open the door again.
Instead, I called Lauren, who advised me to document everything and contact the non-emergency police line if necessary. I did. By the time the officer arrived and spoke with Derek in the driveway, the situation had shifted—from a “domestic misunderstanding” to a man furious he could no longer force his way into a home he didn’t own.
Gloria tried to perform dignity for the officer.
“My son’s wife is unstable,” she said loudly.
“She’s throwing family out over a career obsession.”
The officer, a woman in her forties with a tired, knowing expression, asked one question.
“Whose name is on the deed?”
Not Gloria’s.
Not Derek’s.
