My fiancé’s phone rang in the middle of our wedding vows with the most ridiculous, romantic, spicy ringtone I’d ever heard.

I was standing at the altar of St. Bartholomew’s in downtown Phoenix, mascara already threatening to run, looking into the eyes of the man who made me feel seen like nobody ever had. The late afternoon light was pouring through the stained-glass windows, painting everything in soft colors. My parents were in the front row, my dad already red-eyed, my mom clutching a tissue. The church smelled like flowers and old wood and whatever they polish pews with.

Norman squeezed my hands, smiling that lopsided smile that had made me say yes when he proposed on a random Tuesday night in our kitchen. The officiant nodded for him to start.

His vows were beautiful. Of course they were. Norman was a copywriter at a marketing agency. Words were his thing.

“You are,” he said, voice a little shaky, “the sun of my solar system. My favorite notification. The one alert I never want to silence.”

The guests chuckled softly. I laughed through tears. It was cheesy, but it was us. We’d met on a dating app, after all. Our entire relationship started with a notification.

And then, right on cue, as if the universe had a sick sense of humor, his phone started ringing.

Not just any ringtone.

“Pony” by Ginuwine blasted through the church.

The opening beat hit, slow and grinding, echoing off the vaulted ceiling, bouncing around the crucifix above us.

Every single person in the room turned to stare.

For a second, my brain refused to process what I was hearing. Then the lyrics started.

I’m just a bachelor, looking for a partner—

It sounded like it was coming through the overhead speakers, the acoustics amplifying every word.

Norman’s face went white like he’d seen a ghost. His mouth fell open. He fumbled with his suit jacket pocket and hit every wrong button first. The music kept playing louder and louder, filling the sacred space with strip-club energy.

I stood there in my white dress and veil, bouquet clutched so tight the stems dug into my palms, frozen.

The best man, Axel, tried to laugh it off.

“Guess someone forgot to put their phone on silent,” he said, voice too loud and too forced.

The guests gave these nervous little titters. The officiant looked like he wanted to melt into the floor.

Finally, Norman managed to yank his phone out and stab at the screen. The music cut off mid-chorus.

Silence crashed down over us.

I swallowed.

“Who was that?” I asked.

Norman’s eyes darted around the church, anywhere but my face.

“Wrong number,” he said. “Probably a spam call.”

I blinked at him.

“A spam call?” I repeated. “Norman, that is a custom ringtone. You assigned that song to someone specific.”

He swallowed.

Axel jumped in. “Dude probably saved it as a joke for the boys’ group chat.”

I turned my head slowly and looked right at him.

“Then show me,” I said, my voice calm in a way that scared even me. “Show me the phone. Show me who just called.”

Norman pulled the phone closer to his chest like he was shielding a newborn.

“It’s nobody,” he said. “Can we just continue with the ceremony?”

“No,” I said, louder than I meant to. The sound bounced off the stone walls. “We cannot just continue. I am not saying ‘I do’ until you tell me who that was.”

The officiant stepped forward, palms raised.

“Perhaps we should take a brief pause,” he said gently. “Emotions are running high. We can—”

“Show me the phone, Norman,” I said, not taking my eyes off him.

He stepped back, shaking his head.

Something in me snapped.

I grabbed my dress with both hands so I wouldn’t trip and turned away from the altar. Then I walked straight down the aisle in the opposite direction of the life I thought I was about to enter.

Gasps rippled through the church. My heels clicked against the stone floor. My veil brushed the backs of pews.

“Lauren!” Norman called behind me. “Baby, wait, please!”

The organist looked like she wanted to hide behind her instrument. My bridesmaids stared, wide-eyed. My dad half stood from the front pew.

We ended up in the church lobby, that weird in-between space with pamphlets about youth programs and a big decorative fountain full of coins. The wedding coordinator was hovering near the doors, her smile long gone.

Both our families poured in after us, voices overlapping.

“What’s happening?”

“Did the ring get lost?”

“Is she okay?”

I turned to Norman.

“Was it another woman?” I demanded. “Are you cheating on me?”

“No,” he said immediately. “I swear, it’s not like that.”

“Then who was it?”

He opened his mouth, shut it, opened it again. No sound came out.

That’s when his mom, Jerlyn, shoved her way through the crowd.

“It’s his cousin,” she blurted. “His cousin Rebecca. She couldn’t make it to the wedding because she’s overseas. That’s all.”

The room went quiet.

I stared at her.

“His cousin?” I repeated slowly. “You’re telling me he has a sex song saved as his cousin’s ringtone?”

Jerlyn’s lips trembled.

“They have an inside joke,” she said. “It’s— it’s not what you think.”

“That’s disgusting,” I said flatly. “And you know you’re lying.”

My dad stepped forward, shoulders squared.

“Son,” he said, voice low and dangerous, “you better start talking right now.”

Norman looked at his mom, then at me. Panic was written all over his face.

“I can’t,” he whispered. “I just… I can’t explain right now.”

My mom started crying. “Did you cheat on my daughter?” she sobbed. “Norman, did you cheat on my baby?”

His dad, Cyrus, grabbed his shoulder.

“Norman,” he said sharply. “What did you do?”

I ripped off my veil and threw it on the lobby floor. The delicate lace crumpled like tissue.

“I’m not marrying you,” I said, “until you tell me the truth.”

I lunged for his phone. Norman jerked away and the phone slipped from his hand. Everything slowed down for a second as I watched it arc through the air.

It landed in the decorative fountain with a loud splash.

The sound echoed through the lobby.

People gasped. Norman dove his hand into the water and pulled the phone out, but the screen was already black. Water dripped onto his dress shirt.

“It’s dead,” he said, staring at it. Then he looked up at me with a flash of something that looked a lot like relief. “I’m sorry. It’s ruined. Can we please just move forward with the wedding?”

My maid of honor, Clare, stepped between us.

“If that call was just your cousin,” she said, “why are you so relieved the phone is dead?”

“I want the truth,” I said. My voice shook, but I didn’t back down. “Right now. Or this wedding is over.”

Norman was shaking, tears in his eyes.

“You have five seconds,” I said, because I knew if I didn’t draw a line, he’d try to slide right past it like he always did.

“I— I can’t,” he said.

“One,” I said.

“Lauren, please—”

“Two.”

“Just give me a chance to—”

“Three.”

“Baby, don’t do this here—”

“Four.”

“Okay!” he blurted out.

The room went dead silent. Even the fountain sounded quieter.

Norman took a shaky breath.

“The woman’s name is Vanessa,” he said.

My heart stopped.

“Who is Vanessa?” I asked.

“She’s… someone from my past,” he said.

“What does that mean?”

Jerlyn started crying. Ugly crying, the kind that crumpled her whole face.

“Vanessa is the mother of his child,” she wailed.

The words didn’t make sense at first. They hung in the air like smoke.

“What?” I whispered.

Norman wouldn’t look at me.

“I have a son,” he said finally. “He’s four years old. I never told you.”

The lobby exploded.

My family started yelling. His family started yelling. The wedding coordinator made a strangled sound. The florist’s assistant was clutching a box of boutonnieres, eyes huge.

“You have a child?” I shouted over the chaos. “A four-year-old child? You never mentioned—”

My brain misfired.

My mind scrambled back through every moment of our four-year relationship. Every conversation about kids. Every joke about baby names. Every time I’d said I wanted to wait a few years so we could enjoy being married first, and he’d agreed without hesitation.

How do you hide an entire human being for four years?

“But why does she have that ringtone?” I demanded. “Why does ‘Pony’ play when she calls?”

Norman rubbed his face.

“I set it years ago when we were together,” he said. “She never calls me, so I forgot to change it.”

“That still doesn’t explain why you were so panicked,” I said.

He looked like he was about to throw up.

“That’s not the whole story,” he murmured.

My legs suddenly felt weak.

“What else?” I asked.

He swallowed hard.

“Three months ago,” he said, “Vanessa came back to town. We… ran into each other at a bar.” He stared at the floor. “We slept together one time. I swear, just once.”

It felt like someone had punched me in the stomach. All the air left my lungs.

My dad lunged forward, but my brothers grabbed him just in time.

“You slept with her three months ago,” I said, voice shaking, “while we were planning our wedding?”

He nodded, tears spilling over.

“And why,” I screamed, “was she calling you today?”

Norman’s mouth opened and closed.

He couldn’t get it out.

His mother answered for him.

“She’s pregnant,” Jerlyn sobbed.

The ground tilted.

I felt my knees buckle and grabbed onto Clare’s arm to stay upright.

I stared at Norman.

“You got her pregnant again?” I whispered. “While we were choosing centerpieces?”

The room spun.

“Okay,” I said suddenly, because if I didn’t focus on something concrete I was going to pass out. I pulled my phone from my bouquet where Clare had tucked it earlier. “Let’s call her.”

“Lauren, no,” Jerlyn said. “We shouldn’t—”

“Give me her number,” I said to Norman.

He stood there frozen.

My dad stepped forward, his expression more terrifying than I’d ever seen.

“Now, son,” he said.

Norman flinched. With shaking hands, he reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out his tablet.

I stared.

“You had a backup device this whole time?” Clare said, incredulous.

He unlocked it without a word. I snatched it from him and opened his cloud storage app, scrolling through his contacts. It didn’t take long to find her.

Vanessa Wooten.

Her number sat right there next to her name.

I dialed it on my phone and hit the speaker button.

The lobby went silent again. Even the fountain seemed to hold its breath.

One ring.

Two rings.

“Hello?” A woman’s voice, tired and a little confused.

I didn’t give her time for anything else.

“Why are you calling my fiancé on our wedding day?” I demanded.

Silence. Three seconds stretched into forever.

“Your what?” Vanessa said. Her voice shot up an octave. “Norman told me you guys broke up two months ago. He said you ended things and he was moving in with me next week to help with our son and the new baby.”

The church lobby exploded again.

My mom gasped so loud it echoed off the lobby walls. Norman’s dad started yelling at him. My brothers had to hold my dad back again because he actually looked like he was going to hit someone.

Jerlyn collapsed into a chair, sobbing into her hands.

I kept the phone pressed to my ear.

“He told you we broke up,” I repeated. My voice sounded weird and high. “We’ve been planning this wedding for eight months. The invitations went out three months ago.”

Vanessa started cursing in Spanish. I didn’t know every word, but I knew enough to get the sentiment.

“That lying piece of garbage,” she said finally. “He’s been at my apartment twice a week, playing with Jasper, talking about being a family. He said you were just some friend who got the wrong idea.”

I looked at Norman.

He was backing toward the door like he was thinking about running.

“How many other lies?” I asked him directly, ignoring the phone. “How many other things did you tell her that weren’t true?”

Norman opened his mouth, but only this strangled sound came out.

“I can fix this,” he finally said. “Just give me five minutes to explain everything privately and you’ll understand.”

Clare grabbed my arm, her fingers digging into my skin.

“We’re leaving,” she said loudly enough for everyone to hear. “You don’t owe him another second of your time.”

She took my phone, told Vanessa we’d talk later, and hung up. Then she grabbed my hand and started pulling me toward the exit.

My mom rushed over and took my other arm.

Savannah, my little sister, appeared out of nowhere with my purse—the one I’d left in the bridal suite.

My dad was still yelling at Norman, but my brothers got him moving toward the door too.

Norman tried to follow us, calling my name again and again, but Cyrus grabbed his shoulder and yanked him back.

Jerlyn sat in the chair, rocking and mumbling, “This wasn’t supposed to happen like this. He promised he would handle everything before the wedding.”

We burst out into the parking lot.

The Arizona sun felt harsh and too bright. A breeze lifted my slip where the dress had been, making my skin prickle.

My mom guided me toward her car, but Clare shook her head.

“I’ll drive her,” she said. “You and Savannah follow us.”

My dad was already heading to his truck, face still red, hands in fists.

We drove back to my parents’ house in Goodyear in three separate cars. I stared out the window of Clare’s SUV, watching familiar streets slide past.

I’d driven this route a thousand times. It had never felt this long or this strange.

At the house, my mom pulled me straight to the couch. I sank down onto it and the dam finally broke.

I ugly-cried.

Snot, mascara, hiccupping breaths. My white slip was soon streaked with makeup and tears.

My mom held me and stroked my hair, murmuring nonsense.

Savannah sat cross-legged on the floor by my knees, just being close.

My dad paced back and forth across the living room with his phone pressed to his ear, calling relatives and telling them the wedding was off. I heard him try to keep his voice steady and fail.

Clare sat on the edge of the coffee table and opened her Notes app.

“Reception venue,” she said quietly. “Caterer. Photographer. Honeymoon reservations. Florist. DJ. We need to cancel everything.”

My phone buzzed in my purse.

I pulled it out. Norman’s name lit up the screen.

Then again.

Then again.

Seventeen missed calls in under an hour.

I watched it vibrate across the coffee table like it had a life of its own. My thumb hovered over the green button.

Clare reached over and turned the ringer off.

“You don’t have to deal with him right now,” she said.

Eventually, the crying slowed. I felt hollow instead, like someone had scooped out my insides with a spoon.

My mom made me drink water. I choked it down. Savannah brought tea and set it on the table. Nobody touched it.

That evening, after the sky went from orange to purple, I finally checked my voicemail.

Norman’s voice poured into my ear, thick with tears.

“Lauren, please,” he sobbed. “I need to explain. Vanessa seduced me when I was vulnerable and confused about us. I made a mistake but I love you. I love you. It meant nothing. I’ve been trying to figure out how to tell you about Jasper. The timing was never right. Please, we can fix this. We can go to therapy. Please don’t throw away everything we have.”

Delete.

I didn’t listen to the other five messages.

That night, I slept in my old bedroom with the teal walls my sixteen-year-old self had insisted on. Savannah refused to leave, so she slept on a guest mattress on the floor, one hand resting on the side of my bed like she used to when she was little and scared of thunderstorms.

For about three seconds when I woke up, I forgot.

Then it all came crashing back and my stomach rolled.

I was still in the satin slip. My wedding dress hung in my childhood closet, zippered and pressed, like some dead thing.

At nine a.m., the doorbell rang.

Clare’s voice floated up the stairs. A minute later, she knocked on my door, balancing a cardboard coffee tray and a bag of bagels.

“I took the week off work,” she said, setting the drinks on my dresser. “We’re dealing with everything. Starting with getting your stuff from you-know-who’s apartment.”

My dad appeared in the doorway.

“I’m coming too,” he said. “You’re not going there without backup.”

The thought of facing our place made me want to crawl back under the covers, but Clare was right. My clothes, my laptop, my documents—they were all there.

We drove to the Tempe apartment in Clare’s car, my dad’s truck following behind.

I’d been so excited when Norman and I signed the lease two years earlier. We’d painted the living room a warm cream, picked out a couch together at IKEA, argued about throw pillows.

Now the building just looked like a brick box full of bad decisions.

We took the elevator to the third floor. I opened the door with my key.

The apartment looked exactly the same.

Dishes stacked in the drying rack. Couch blanket thrown over the back. The framed photo of us at Sedona still on the wall.

But everything felt different. Like I was looking at a crime scene.

Norman wasn’t home. Good.

Clare headed straight to the bedroom to start packing my clothes. My dad stood in the living room with his arms crossed, taking it all in.

I drifted into the kitchen like a ghost.

In the junk drawer by the landline, I found a second charger. An iPhone cord. Norman had an Android.

I’d seen it before, casually tossing it aside when looking for scissors, never questioning why we had it. Now I saw it for what it was.

Vanessa’s.

My hands shook as I opened the drawer where we kept our bills.

I pulled out a stack of credit card statements and started flipping through them. Charges at restaurants I’d never eaten at. A hotel in March, tagged as “Conference,” on the same weekend he’d sent me photos from a “work trip” with suspiciously generic hotel-room backgrounds.

Purchases from a toy store.

My dad came over and looked over my shoulder. His jaw clenched.

I stuffed the statements into my purse.

Clare called from the bedroom.

“Uh, Lauren? You need to see this.”

We walked in and found her standing by Norman’s side of the closet, holding a cardboard box.

Inside were greeting cards. Maybe twenty.

I picked up the first one.

On the front, a crayon drawing of a dinosaur. Inside, in a messy child’s handwriting clearly guided by an adult:

Happy Birthday Daddy. I love you.

From Jasper.

The date was two years ago.

I picked up another.

Happy Father’s Day, Daddy, with two stick figures holding hands.

Another.

I miss you, Daddy. When are you coming to visit?

My vision blurred.

Norman had been getting cards from his son for years. He’d kept them hidden in a box in our shared closet while I lay in his arms at night, talking about the future and how many kids we might have someday.

I sat down hard on the edge of the bed.

Clare wrapped an arm around me. My dad took the box and flipped through the cards, his expression darkening with each one.

I stood up and started yanking my clothes off hangers, throwing them onto the bed. I didn’t fold. I didn’t sort. I just wanted my things out of that closet.

Clare helped, folding as she went, making piles, filling suitcases.

On her third trip down to the truck, she paused in the doorway, staring at Norman’s open laptop on the desk.

“He left it on,” she said.

I walked over and wiggled the mouse. The screen woke up. His email was open.

Part of me wanted to close the lid. The other part knew this was my one chance to see the full extent of his lies before he started scrubbing.

“Look,” Clare said quietly. “Before he can delete anything.”

I sat down.

Dozens of emails from Vanessa stared back at me.

I clicked the most recent.

It was from three weeks ago.

Hey, just confirming you’re still coming to Jasper’s pre-school graduation Thursday at 6. He keeps asking if Daddy will be there. Please don’t disappoint him.

Norman’s reply was underneath.

I’ll try, but I’m slammed with wedding stuff. You know how it is. I’ll make it up to him if I can’t.

Wedding stuff.

I clicked another email. Then another. They went back months.

Doctor appointments.

Child support payments sent late with flimsy excuses.

Ultrasound photos attached, baby names discussed.

There was one from two months ago that made my blood run cold.

Vanessa: Are you sure about this plan? It feels wrong.

Norman’s reply:

I have to go through with the wedding. My parents already paid for half of it. If I back out now, my mom will never forgive me. After the honeymoon, I’ll tell Lauren I made a mistake and file for divorce. It’ll be quick. I’ll move in with you and Jasper by the end of the summer. We’ll finally be a real family. Marrying her is just something I have to get through first.

I read it three times.

Each time, the words hurt more.

Clare read over my shoulder.

“Wow,” she whispered. “He really said that.”

My dad walked in and read it too. He didn’t say anything. He just walked out of the room and I heard a loud bang from the kitchen as he punched a cabinet door.

We forwarded the whole email thread to my personal account and saved copies on a flash drive Clare had miraculously brought “just in case.” We printed out the worst ones on Norman’s printer. Pages and pages of proof.

I went deeper into the laptop. I found his text backups, dozens of threads with Vanessa that matched the emails. I found photos of Jasper’s birthday parties, photos of Norman and Jasper together at the park, at the zoo, at a backyard I didn’t recognize.

He had an entire second life.

When we’d taken everything I owned and printed everything we needed, we left without closing anything.

Let him come home and see.

Back at my parents’ house, we spread the printed emails out on the dining room table like some deranged evidence board. Savannah opened her laptop and started building a timeline.

We realized the affair hadn’t just “happened once” three months ago. It had been on and off for the entire four years I’d been with Norman. There were gaps, sure, but they never lasted more than eight months. The longest gap was right when he’d proposed to me on that Tuesday night with a cheap ring and takeout. A few months later, the messages started again.

My mom looked at the emails, then walked into the kitchen and called the venue coordinator.

“We need to cancel everything,” she said. “My daughter will not be marrying that man.”

The coordinator was apparently very understanding. “This happens more than you’d think,” my mom reported when she came back.

That evening, the doorbell rang.

My dad answered.

Norman’s voice floated in from the entryway.

“Please, I just need five minutes, sir. Please, I need to talk to her.”

I stood by the living room window and watched.

My dad blocked the doorway with his arm across the frame.

I couldn’t hear every word, but I saw the way my dad’s jaw worked, how he shook his head, how he pointed toward the street.

Norman tried to push past. My dad put a hand on his chest, stopping him cold.

Finally, Norman’s shoulders slumped. He wiped his face and walked back to his car.

My dad closed the door, locked it, and turned to me.

“He’s not welcome here,” he said. “Any communication goes through a lawyer.”

An hour later, my mom’s phone rang.

She showed me the caller ID.

Jerlyn.

She answered and put it on speaker.

“I am so, so sorry,” Jerlyn sobbed. “I told him he needed to tell her about the baby and Jasper years ago. He kept saying he would handle it. I never meant for it to happen like this.”

I listened for thirty seconds.

Then I looked at my mom.

“Hang up,” I said.

She did.

Jerlyn called back twice. My mom didn’t answer.

The next day, Clare and I went to the bank.

Norman and I had a joint savings account we’d been using to “save for our future.” I’d been depositing money faithfully every month. He had access too.

We sat down with a banker and pulled up the transaction history.

It was all there.

Transfers to Vanessa.

$1,500 in January.

$1,000 in February.

$2,000 in March.

Smaller amounts sprinkled in between.

In the past year alone, he’d transferred over $18,000 out of that account.

My stomach flipped.

That was supposed to be our honeymoon fund. Our down payment.

Instead, it had been financing his double life.

The banker helped me open a new account in just my name and transfer exactly half of what was left in the joint account. After Norman’s withdrawals, my half came to just over $4,000. We canceled the joint card and removed my name from his credit lines.

Every click felt like taking back a piece of myself.

That afternoon, my sister had already lined up free consultations with three family lawyers.

“You’re dealing with enough,” she said when I stared at her. “Let me handle logistics.”

I met with all three. I picked the one who looked me in the eye and didn’t sugarcoat anything—a woman named Harper who’d been practicing in Phoenix for twenty years.

She looked through my stack of printed emails and bank statements.

“You have a strong civil case for fraud and financial damages,” she said. “Even without a marriage certificate.”

We filed.

Four days after the wedding, an unknown number popped up on my phone.

I almost ignored it. Something made me answer.

“Hello?”

“Is this the woman who was supposed to marry Norman?” a quiet voice asked.

“Yes,” I said slowly. “Who is this?”

“It’s Vanessa,” she said. “I think we need to talk. In person.”

I looked at Clare. She nodded.

“Okay,” I said. “When and where?”

We met the next morning at a coffee shop in downtown Phoenix.

She walked in wearing a blue jacket, just like she’d said. She looked younger than me. Way younger. Tired eyes, hair pulled back in a messy bun, pregnant belly obvious under her coat.

She sat down across from me and Clare.

“I am so sorry,” she said immediately. “I didn’t know. I swear I didn’t know.”

My throat felt tight.

“Didn’t know what?” I asked.

“That you two were really together,” she said. “He told me you broke up two months ago. He said you were just a friend from work who had feelings for him, but he didn’t want to lead you on.”

Clare muttered something obscene under her breath.

Vanessa pulled out her phone and scrolled.

“Look,” she said.

She turned the screen toward me.

Text messages. Hundreds of them.

He’d told her I was his roommate at first. Then his casual girlfriend who knew about her and was okay with it. Then the story had shifted, and I’d become someone he was planning to “let down gently” after sorting out things with his son.

He’d told her we’d been officially broken up for two months and I was just “having a hard time letting go.” He said he’d been sleeping on the couch and only still living with me because the lease wasn’t up.

I stared at the messages, heat rising in my chest.

“He told me you knew about Jasper and just didn’t want to be involved,” Vanessa said. “I thought that was cold, but I figured it was your right. He said once things were settled, he’d move in with us.”

My stomach twisted.

“He played us both,” I said.

Vanessa nodded, tears filling her eyes.

“My son asks why Daddy keeps leaving,” she said. “I don’t know how to explain that his father only shows up when it’s convenient.”

By the time we left the coffee shop, I didn’t hate her. I hated him, but not her.

She was a victim, too.

That night, Norman emailed me a novel-length apology. He blamed stress, fear, his childhood, everything except his own choices.

I read every word. Then I replied with one sentence.

Have your lawyer contact my lawyer.

Then I blocked his email.

I moved into my own apartment two weeks later. It was a small one-bedroom in a historic brick building near Roosevelt Row with creaky floors and big windows that overlooked a coffee shop. My parents helped with the deposit. Clare and Savannah helped me move my boxes and thrift-store furniture.

We sat on my floor that first night eating pizza from paper plates.

“To new beginnings,” Clare said, raising her soda.

“To leaving liars behind,” Savannah added.

We clinked cups.

Two days later, Jerlyn showed up at my door.

She looked smaller without her professionally done hair and makeup. She clutched her purse like a life raft.

“May I come in?” she asked.

I hesitated, then stepped aside.

She stood in my living room, taking in the mismatched furniture and boxes.

“I wanted to apologize,” she said. “For my part in all of this.”

She admitted she’d known about Jasper for years. That when Vanessa first told Norman she was pregnant, she’d begged him to keep it quiet. She didn’t want to be the mother of a man who had a child out of wedlock. It would “reflect badly” on their family.

“We should have made him tell you,” she said, tears spilling over. “We cared more about appearances than about doing the right thing. That’s on me.”

She reached into her purse and took out her checkbook.

“I know it doesn’t fix anything,” she said, “but I want to repay some of what he took from your account. We’ve accessed his trust.”

She wrote a check for $8,000 and set it on my counter.

“I’ll need to talk to my lawyer,” I said.

She nodded and left without another word.

My lawyer okayed depositing it as part of our settlement negotiations. “It’s a start,” she said.

Norman showed up drunk at my building one night, buzzing the intercom and slurring apologies and accusations.

“You’re ruining my life,” he shouted into the speaker. “You turned everyone against me. You’re suing me, you’re talking to Vanessa—”

I recorded the whole thing on my phone and c