One day, he left the office door unlocked.

I had ten minutes before picking Micah up from daycare—something I’d paid for using my own dwindling savings.

I hadn’t planned to snoop. I just moved with intention.

On the bottom shelf were manila folders—rent statements, utility bills—all addressed to an apartment I didn’t recognize.

There were also checks made out to “Horizon Medical Billing” and “Fairgrove Oxygen Supply.”

I stood there holding them, like they might explode.

Was he paying for another place? Another family?

I didn’t sleep that night.

By morning, Micah was at daycare, Nicole was in her stroller, and I was in a cab, giving the driver the address and my last $120. At a red light, I spotted Michael’s car—the dent by the license plate confirmed it.

I told the driver to keep his distance.

Michael pulled into the same apartment complex listed in the folders.

My stomach twisted.

So I was right.

The cab stopped across the street.

“That him?” the driver asked.

“Yes.” I nodded.