The first document Nathan read was the deed to our house. For ten years he had let me handle every piece of paperwork he claimed to hate, and in doing so he had never once noticed a simple fact: the house we bought together was titled in my name alone. He had contributed to it, yes, but the mortgage, the deed, the property records, all of it ran through me, because I was the one who filled out the forms while he waved them away. The second document was the bank records showing that the “shared” accounts he treated so casually were, legally, individual accounts in my name that I had simply given him access to.

Nathan’s hands shook as he flipped to the third page. “You can’t do this,” he whispered. “This is our home.” I sipped my coffee. “You told me last night that paper changes nothing. That legal contracts are only for people who need to feel secure.” I set the mug down. “For ten years, I was the one who took care of the paper, because you couldn’t be bothered. And it turns out the paper says this house is mine, these accounts are mine, and you and I are two legally unrelated people who happen to share an address. You made sure of that. You just never read what you were refusing to sign.”